


With the Wings of Eagles

by Aelwyn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Childhood, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Initially Completed on Wattpad on 15th July 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 47,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23330641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelwyn/pseuds/Aelwyn
Summary: We all know about Steve Rogers and James Barnes when they're grown, but what about when they were kids?Get ready to swing to some Jazz, because we're headed back to the Roaring 20s and the Great Depression to walk along Coney Island's boardwalk and ride the trolleys through Brooklyn and New York's other boroughs...





	1. Prologue: Winter's Bite

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading up on the comics recently, very happy to do so and enjoying them very much (That was to the people who assume I have no background knowledge in the Marvel Universe because of what I am about to write). HOWEVER, this story is based on the movies. I knew they took a different role to Cap and Buck the moment we all discovered that they had grown up together and were old friends from childhood, which means there was a different origin story there than previously shown in the comics. I've become increasingly intrigued by that, seeing as we now have a whole new mystery as to how they met, what school was like- or more importantly home life- and how they came to where our journey started with them. I find it a challenging riddle that my writing skills have been itching to attack, and so without further ado attack it I shall.
> 
> This story starts at the beginning- aka the 1920's- and ends in 2018; It's the story of two friends that captured our hearts on the pages and on the big screen. They remain Frozen in Time, never dying out, living on in our memories forever.

He lay there unable to move with no idea of how long he'd been unconscious. He knew that the train had long since passed by, and that he was left alone. He felt as if he was on fire; he could no longer feel his left arm. The broken soldier tried to force open heavy eyes only to fail; pain coursed through him with the simple effort. A spark of lightning raged through his muscles and set his blood aflame as he was jolted roughly out of what seemed to be a hole with jagged edges and onto a lumpy and cold but soft surface. Now there were voices, sounding muted and far away. He could tell that they were foreign; possibly German. No, wait... He strained to hear more. Russian? So the big question now, the only one that mattered, was really quite simple: Were they Allies or Axis? 

His mind began to clear and he could distinguish both European languages out of a heated conversation. 

"Мы наштт ыэго в пэрвуыу очэрэд!"

"Als ob es auf Hydra zählt," came the icy voice. It was immediately followed by gunfire, and had he the strength to the American would have flinched away from the obtrusive noise. As it was, he was unable even to protest when they started dragging him away again. The pain, intense on levels beyond comprehension, increased exponentially until he mercifully fell into blackness once more. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Velkom bak, Sargynt Barnes," A familiar voice said as he finally managed to blink open heavy eyes. The Sergeant instantly felt chilled to the bone when he saw the neat bow tie, the spectacles, the same maniacal smile that Zola had worn when experimenting on him before... He went to stand up, but something was different. He raised his hands and saw that, while the right was fine, his left was made of metal. The whole _arm_ was. Shocked, the American lashed out at the nearest man in sight, catching the doctor in the throat with the new shiny fingers. Assistants began rushing about; a mad scurry to establish order. Through all of it stood Zola, calm and unmoved. 

"The procedure iss already started, soldier." The smile again. It drove him nuts. "It iss useless to persist in this effort for escape."

"That's what you think, buddy!" The Sargeant snapped, struggling to break free of the bonds that held him to the table.

"In truth, you vere ours the moment your unit vas first captured," Zola continued as more guards and doctors rushed in. "You were und are to be the new fist of Hydra." 

"Never! Captain Ro- America won't let you get away with any of this." The unruffled exterior drew back to reveal a sadistic sense of humor.

"Oh, I doubt it, Sgt. Barnes. You see, he has been dead for almost tventy years now." He turned his back, walking out of the room. "Vipe his memory. Vhen you ahr finisht, put him on ice."

There was a sharp jab in the back of his neck- but not half as sharp as the barbed words which had cleaved his heart in two- as the soldier felt the world sliding away from him again... And he instinctively knew that, when he woke up, nothing would ever be the same.

" _I'm sorry, Steve."_ It was the last thing he thought. _"I guess I'm getting off this train early. Sorry you'll... Have ta... Wait for me to... Join... You..... A Long....... Ti- .................."_


	2. Brooklyn Beat

It was a regular End-December afternoon after school had got out on a Monday in 1923, even to the boy with brunet hair and shameless smile- albeit a few gaps in his teeth- peering out of a face seemingly dominated by big blue eyes and the bandage across the bridge of his nose. Even to him, though his father would be giving him something for his birthday later that evening. It would be nothing much; something simple. Life didn't get too fancy in the neighborhoods of Brooklyn for kids like him. 

" 'Ello, James!" The butcher from the corner called as he walked by. "How old r'ya taday, son?" 

"Six," The boy answered breezily as he sauntered by without a care in the world, hands in his pockets and dirt-encrusted shoes kicking at pebbles lying in his path. The bruised knuckles were fingering a two bit coin in his pocket between the right fingers and- oddly- an unused shell from an army issue rifle between the left. 

James continued on down the busy street, where kids his age were playing stickball and boilers travelled noisily down the road, interrupting their games as they drove by; he paused to whistle in appreciation at the display of candies within the sweet shop window boxes. His attention, however, was soon to be directed into the dingy alley running like a shadowy seam between this building and the grocer's store. 

Frowning, the brunet walked with catlike silence further down the alley from the view of the street to find a group of boys chattering excitedly over something, gathered round whatever the spectacle was. An uneasy feeling began to settle in the pit of James' stomach when he picked certain familiar figures out of the group, namely Johnny "Chisel" Whyte, who appeared to thrive on the misery of others with his gang of adoring dunderheads trailing gleefully after. Pinned into a corner was a scrawny little blond who seemed to be the complete embodiment of illness itself, and he was shaking. There was blood pouring from his split lip and a welt forming on his forehead, but James was most intrigued by the kid's eyes. They were like watery fire, blue as the summer sky but full of heated anger. His bruised jaw was set in a determined scowl, and the quivering came not from fear but from outrage. No matter _how_ small he was, the little termite was a natural-born fighter. 

"I said "back off!" " The blond spat the words, along with a good deal of blood and saliva, right into Johnny's face. The giant fist immediately slammed back into the offensive mouth, knocking out at _least_ three loose baby teeth. 

_Man,_ James thought, _at this rate he'll have 'em all lost by next August!_

"Hey flimflams!" He called; Johnny's clenched fingers skidded to a halt mere centimeters from his victim's face. "Long time no see!" The utter dislike reflected in _Chisel's_ eyes was of no surprise to the brunette. They had a long history of mutual hatred toward each other, ever since James' family had moved to Brooklyn from Indiana and he had transferred schools. Which, truth be told, wasn't anywhere near all that long ago, but to kids that young it seemed an eternity. 

"Forget the runt!" Johnny snapped at his so-called thugs. "Get Barnes!" Already resigned to the inevitable fate of losing against these jerks, James wasted no time in barrelling directly into the nearest clutz's torso, thus unbalancing him long enough to press the advantage. 

"Run!" He called to the puny figure slumped against the wall; he hadn't moved since he'd been thrown with all the anger Chisel Whyte possessed into the grimy brick. "I've got this covered!" But James was too busy concentrating on his footwork to let his thoughts linger too long on the kid he'd just saved, and it was to the amazement of all that a quick streak of messy blond hair tore into the fray, slipping underneath the legs of the far larger boys and sweeping their feet out from under them. 

"Are you kidding?!" He exclaimed in response to James' order. "I'm not leaving you to fight them by yourself- oof!" One of the opposition, reeling back from James' fist, stumbled directly into his new ally. But the scrawny kid used it to his advantage, compensating for his lack of strength with his greater speed due to his lesser size: he ducked down low and presented a wonderful obstacle to trip over. 

"Nice one," James remarked as he delivered a knuckle sandwich to Chisel Whyte. 

"Not so bad yourself," the blonde panted. He seemed to be having some difficulty breathing; Asthma, perhaps? At any rate, they were soon overwhelmed by sheer strength and numbers, and were saved a worse fate by the sound of a policeman's whistle. Instead, they were merely thrown into garbage bins without any real ceremony. 

"Ugh!" The blond spat, worming his way right side up, a look of disgust on his face. 

"Yuck!" James came bursting to the surface out of a mound of spoiling cabbage. The two boys looked at each other, and then smiled. 

"I'm Steve Rogers," the blond said, making a great effort to extract his arm out from underneath a pile of old shirts. 

"James Barnes, but I hate my name so you can call me Bucky." James answered, returning the handshake. He flicked a scrap of decaying noodle out of Steve's hair before adding, "let's get out of here." 

"I hear ya talkin'." They scrambled with some difficulty out of the cans, grimacing at their appearance when they were free. Together they began walking back out toward the street.

"So why were they after you anyway?" Bucky asked.

"They wanted my fin," Steve explained, waving the five dollar bill before stuffing it back in his pocket. 

"What'cha need one of those for?" Bucky said, impressed. It wasn't many parents who would feel comfortable giving their children five whole dollars. 

"My Mum. She wanted me to stop by the grocer's on the way home from school, on account'a she's busy at work at the factory and all," Steve said proudly. 

"But what about your old man?" An awkward silence ensued as they walked into the shop. "... Oh."

"Yeah. I don't really remember him, anyway. He got hit with mustard gas a few months before the end of the war."

"Who was he with?"

"The 95th. He was a Corporal. Mum got a condolence note and a pair o' eagle wing pins. Guess he always wore 'em on his collar for luck." 

"Eagle wings? Huh. Would've guessed something more... Personal."

"I guess. But he was proud he was fightin' for America since he and Mum moved here from Ireland a few years before the war started." Steve dropped a loaf of bread and some fresh vegetables in front of the man behind the counter. "I'd also like a half pound of coffee, please."

"Sure thing, Rogers." The elder man smiled at the pair of them in turn. "Your mother working today, son?"

"Yep." 

"Then I'll put these in a sturdy bag for you. I've a feeling I'm not the only place you have to go to today. Happy birthday, Barnes. What can I do for you?" 

"I'm just here with Steve, Mr. Hindle."

"Oh, I see." Hindle leaned over the wooden counter to recieve the fin from Steve, handing back the leftover change and the items in a sturdy paper bag. He presented an extra two-bit coin to Bucky. "Here ya go, son. Tell your old man I said hi." 

"Gee, thanks!" They walked out and headed for the butcher's, where Steve bought a half pound of salt pork and added the parcel to the paper bag he was already carrying. Lugging it around like a deadweight, really. It would probably be a little too heavy even for Bucky. 

"Anything else you have to get?" Bucky asked as he grabbed the bag; they were both carrying it now and the weight was distributed. 

"Nah, that's about it."

"Good."

"It's really your birthday today?"

"Yeah. I'm six now."

"I'll be six in July." They swapped information all the way to Steve's apartment building, where they travelled up the stairs and arrived huffing and tired at the doorstep. Steve took a key out of his pocket and slotted it into the lock; there was a click and they were inside. The bag of groceries went to the small kitchen and the items were deposited inside the ice box or cupboards where they belonged. 

"Wanna go by the sweet shop?" Bucky asked as they walked back out into the street.

"No money," Steve said, holding out his hands. 

"You had a whole two dollars left over!" Bucky exclaimed. 

"Nope! Whatever was left over I needed to give back. Those'r the rules."

"I like you kid, but you're a strange one," Bucky muttered with a shake of his head. "Well, c'mon. We'll get an ice cream or something. My treat." Steve looked at him, incredulous. 

"Really? In December?"

"Course. I mean, it's not every day I meet someone in a trash can." This produced a smile from the split lip, which appeared to protest as it began bleeding again. 

"Thanks." They walked toward the waterfront of Gravesend Bay, where one could find the incredibly rare ice cream cart that sold its delicacies for only ¢25 a cone until the first big snow, at which point the owner closed for the season and awaited the thaw. No one seemed to know about it aside from the children of Brooklyn, drawn like pins to a magnet by some mysterious force.

"Why'd Mr. Hindle give you a quarter?" Steve asked as they sat on the edge of a boat launch, feet dangling over the water as they ate their ice cream- both choosing vanilla over the more popular chocolate- and observing the early sunset of the winter months. 

"I always get one from him on my birthday," Bucky said, pausing in between licks. "He and my father used to be in the same company before he retired from service, during the war. They were really close." 

"Oh. So... What's your mum like?" 

"Haven't got one. Scarlet Fever, about a year and a half ago. killed her, my three younger sisters, and baby brother. It's why my pop had us move to Brooklyn from Indiana."

"Sorry." 

"Yeah... But they were nice, and I don't have any bad memories of them. Guess that's the only thing that counts." Steve only nodded, a sour look appearing on his face. _Possibly,_ Bucky supposed, _his mother doesn't tell 'im much about his old man._ They finished their ice cream in silence and simply sat there on the boat launch for a few moments after, swinging their short legs in the air between the water and their perch. 

"Wanna come over for dinner?" Steve asked, turning to Bucky. The brunette smiled.

"Sure. My pop won't be back for a long while yet. I'm usually with old Mrs. Bird, who owns the apartment next to ours." He wrinkled his nose in displeasure. "She has a nasty old bulldog that hates me." Bucky elbowed Steve in the ribs when the blond laughed. "It's not that funny."

"Sure it's not," Steve snickered, elbowing Bucky back. The effect was startling. Bucky leapt to his feet, rubbing his chest.

"Youch! Your elbows are sharp!" But he was smiling good-naturedly, and offered a hand to Steve. "I hope your mama wraps you in a blanket before she hugs you." He ducked as the kid took a swipe at his head, and set off at a run. "Too slow!" 

"I'll get you!" Steve threatened, laughing as he gave chase. Bucky slowed down considerably when he realized that the poor scrap probably couldn't ever hope to match his speed, and they arrived back at the small apartment; one gasping for breath, the other only panting slightly as his strong lungs admirably pumped fresh oxygen into his body as quickly as he exhaled the carbon dioxide. Steve tried fumbling for the key in his pockets before giving up and bracing his arms against his knees until his vision stopped spinning and his chest opened back up, rasping, clawing, fighting for even the tiniest amount of air. This practically scared Bucky out of his wits, and he paced anxiously behind him until the attack was over. 

Steve finally managed to gulp a considerable amount of life-giving gases into his respiratory system and straightened back up, flashing the brunette a weak smile before taking out the key and slipping it into the lock. Night was swiftly falling on Brooklyn, and the unusually chill air most likely was a catalyst for the unprecedented assault by the asthma. Bucky followed behind, feeling an overwhelming desire to protect the little squirt as best he could. _Nothing_ would happen to him so long as he was there. Nothing he couldn't prevent, anyway. Less of a thought and more of a subconscious vow, Barnes remained wrapped up in it until Rogers called out:

"Mum, I'm home!" A shadow bounced off the walls, originating- along with a delicious aroma that made Bucky's mouth water- from the kitchen. A woman, most likely in her early thirties, stepped into the narrow hallway. Even though she looked tired, sore, and very, very pale- as if she were sick- her deep blue eyes rang with warmth out from under stray bits of soft blonde curls that had escaped from a hastily-constructed bun. She was holding a dish towel, which was dripping sudsy water onto her dress wrinkled from a long day at the factory. It took Bucky a moment to realise that he had stopped walking, and was merely standing in the open doorway with a stupid expression on his face while Steve kicked off his shoes and let his coat drop to the floor. 

"Steven!" The little kid froze. "How many times must I tell you? Coat hung up, shoes underneath." 

"Sorry, mum." Steve sighed as he unhappily carried out the commands. Meanwhile, his mother had turned to smile at Bucky, Irish accent lilting all her words into a melodic pattern.

"Well close the door, dear. We don't want to catch cold." Bucky started, quickly shutting out the dark and threatening storm clouds. "Who's this?" It seemed a question directed more to Steve, but she was looking right at him.

"Bucky," Steve answered promptly before he could open his mouth to answer. A fine, tawny eyebrow raised in scepticism. 

"J-James Barnes, m'am. My friends call me Bucky."

"I'm Sarah Rogers, but that'll be "Mrs." to you. Come inside, James. Let's see if you can hang your coat properly the first try." Steve rolled his eyes as he walked into the sitting room and fumbled for the light switch, illuminating the hallway in lamplight. The smile faded from Sarah's face when she took in the cuts and bruises both boys were sporting, stray bits of garbage included, and her jaw got this odd clench to it. Her son seemed to cringe when he saw it, but waited patiently for her to come over, as if resigned to his fate. The young woman beckoned for Barnes to join him, and the duo stood apprehensively as she gave them a good looking-over. Finally she more shooed than spoke, ushering them into the bathroom before running the water for the tub. When it was filled she said, 

"In." 

"Do we have to?" Steve whined. He met Sarah's stern gaze with a downright mutinous expression on his face.

"Yes. Your clothes are filthy. Don't worry, James. I'll get you a clean set."

"But-"

"It's no use," Steve interrupted, sighing. "She never takes no for an answer." With mild protestations both boys unloaded whatever was in their pockets- Bucky his bullet and Steve an eagle wing pin- which included random bits of string and a funny-looking rock or two before undressing and getting into the warm water.

"And use soap!" Sarah called from the hallway. "You both smell like rotten cabbage." This produced more exaggerated groaning, but Bucky was genuinely ecstatic to be mothered again. Needless to say they soon began enjoying themselves when the bubbles frothed up, but they quickly- albeit thoroughly- washed and dried. There were wonderful smells filling the entire apartment as whatever Mrs. Rogers was cooking neared completion; two hungry young boys forgot to bother with their wet hair before dressing and entering the kitchen. Without so much as turning to inspect their appearance she presented each of them combs, held out in her left hand while she stirred the contents of a pot with the right. The pair grinned sheepishly at each other before tackling the snarled hair. 

"There," Sarah said when she turned her attention away from the meal. "I have two handsome young gentlemen for supper tonight. Now, let's see about these scrapes." She made them sit in chairs while she cleaned the wounds and either bandaged or applied a balm to soothe them. Thus, both boys had a round estimate of six or seven total all to themselves. By the time this was completed the food was ready, and she set the steaming stew in the center of the table. Steve had gotten out the plates and flatware while Bucky smartly decided to pour some milk, and Sarah said grace before they ate. 

It was decidedly the best thing Bucky ever remembered eating. The carrots seemed to melt on his tongue, and the salt pork was soft but chewy. There were great big chunks of potatoes that had soaked up all the juices from the vegetables and meat, and fell apart when speared by a fork so that one would be forced to pursue the pieces. 

"So, who did you get into a fight with?" Sarah asked quietly as they ate. It was a non-threatening question, but her tone implied disapproval. 

"A few boys," Bucky answered, looking to Steve to back him up; instead he found the blond chasing a potato fragment around his plate with his eyes glued to the fork. No support there. "They wanted the fin you gave 'im."

"Oh, I see." Rogers risked a glance at his mother and was relieved to find she was no longer upset. He became quite ready to supply information to help the story along after that. 

"They had me pinned in a corner, 'cause I wouldn't give it to 'em. But Bucky happened along and played some chin music."

"And I take it by your filthy apparel that you lost?"

"At least it was the garbage," Bucky muttered. "Chisel Whyte rarely does that to anybody. A cop came by on his beat."

"Right. It could've been a lot worse."

"Swallow before you speak, Steven."

"Sorry mum." He exchanged a guilty look with Barnes, who had been about to do exactly the same thing. When they were finished there was still quite a bit of the stew left over, so that it would last the week. The two boys stationed themselves at the sink- Steve washing and Bucky drying- while Sarah busied herself with making sure the stew was put away properly. She was ushered into the sitting room by her little helpers, who assured her that nothing would be broken. Perhaps it was a merciful gift from Heaven that she allowed them to finish, and didn't see what transpired. Bucky climbed onto the counters to put away the things that went into the cupboards they couldn't reach, receiving them from Steve, who handed them up from the sink. Several times a plate or bowl came close to shattering on the floor, at which point the blonde would dive as if sliding into home base to rescue it from such a disastrous fate. 

All being said, they completed the task without incident and retreated into the sitting room to listen to the radio for awhile while Sarah read a book, one eye on the words at all times and the other once every few minutes glancing over the material to check on her two young charges. 

"James," she said, "do you have a telephone?"

"Sure," the brunet replied. A quizzical frown appeared on his face. "Why?"

"It's getting late. I'd like to call your father so he can come get you." 

"There's really no need, Mrs. Rogers," Bucky responded quickly. "I always walk home."

"In the pouring rain after seven o'clock?" She retorted with a small dose of pointed sarcasm. Barnes looked out the window.

"Oh." The ghost of a smirk rested on Sarah's lips as she walked over to the wall telephone positioned near the door. Bucky looked back down at the paper Steve had been scribbling on and realised that it was turning into a novice-type drawing. "That's pretty good." 

"Ya think so?" Steve asked absent-mindedly, brows furrowed in concentration as he started shading something. 

"Yeah. I'd put artists to shame with my very best." Steve snickered, and he nudged him. "Cut it out."

"You started it."

"And I can finish it. C'mere!" The tickling quickly escalated into a mock fight, and when Steve's mother came back in they were rolling across the entire floor.

"Not in the house!" She commanded, breaking them apart with her foot. 

"Yes m'am," the two boys immediately replied, coming to a standstill as she sat back in her chair.

"She's so calm," Bucky whispered. "Nothing touches her."

"She had three older brothers growing up."

"Gotcha." They contented themselves with attempting to solve crossword puzzles until knocking was heard at the door, at which point Sarah again put down her book and went to answer it. A man's voice was immediately heard. 

"Mrs. Rogers? A pleasure to meet you in person." Two heads peered around the doorframe as a man in damp military fatigues kissed the offered hand. 

"My name is Sarah. I should probably mention to you an incident that seems to have occurred earlier today..." Their voices faded from hearing as the adults walked into the kitchen, the door closing behind them. Steve looked at Bucky, who shrugged. They returned to their puzzle while waiting for their parents to reappear; about ten minutes later Lieutenant Barnes called from the hallway.

"C'mon, James. Let these people go to sleep. You have school tomorrow."

"Yessir!" Bucky replied, leaping to his feet. "See ya later, Steve." 

"Bye!" 

"I've given you our telephone number Mr. Barnes," Sarah explained as she handed the man a slip of paper. Smiling, she added toward her guest, "And happy birthday, James." 

"Thank you for your hospitality," his father said with a tip of his hat, revealing thick and neat brown hair. "And please, call me John. I'm under the impression we'll be seeing more of each other in the future." Both parents looked down at their children as he spoke, smiles on their faces. Bucky cast one last look at Steve before he let the door close, big blue eyes locking with a pair of equally big, equally blue ones. 


	3. Pillow Forts

The morning air was damp and chill as it billowed about Steve's head, his thick scarf preventing it from getting into his lungs before they deemed it breathable. He was headed on his way to school through a thick drift of snow; the rain of the previous night had become an impenetrable mound of solidified dewdrops. Each step he took went up past his knees as he sank in step by step, each breath sharp and icy as it rattled around inside his frail chest. He sneezed as a dripping icicle dropped frigid water onto his nose.

"And it's only December," he sighed. The hands on his wristwatch indicated that he was running late, but... Oh, if only he _could_ run! The stupid snow would have made inching forward difficult, and that was precisely what he was attempting to do through the drifts. 

The honking of a car horn made him turn to see a slightly beaten up Ford Model T chugging its way determinedly toward him; inside was a barely recognisable Bucky Barnes wrapped in a thick comforter. His father was in full formal military dress including his coat, indicating that he had somewhere important to be as soon as he dropped his son off.

"Hi, Steve!" The salutation was punctuated by the chattering of teeth. "It's t-too cold for an-anything today! Like a ride?"

"Would I ev-ever," came the muffled reply as Rogers crossly argued with his scarf before picking his way out of the snow and over to the idling vehicle. It lurched forward again almost immediately after his feet were off the ground, and Bucky threw the heavy blanket over his shoulders before drawing it tight closed again. They huddled together against the chill down the last few blocks and turned, going a little ways over before the school grounds came into view. No one was outside today, except for the stragglers trying to make it on time. 

"You're sure you have all your books?" Lt. Barnes asked.

"Yessir." 

"Right. I'll be back late tonight, I think. I don't want you walking back in this weather. It seems fixing to take a nasty turn later on. Where'll I find you?"

"... Dunno." He glanced at Steve, who shrugged. "If it's all right with Steve, I guess with h-him and his mother." A faint smile, oppressed by the toll of concentration it took to drive in the snow, flickered over John's face when he glanced back at the two boys buried under the blanket. The Ford rolled to a stop and shuddered over the invisible sidewalk curb, making them all lurch forward in their seats. Two coat and satchel-laden kids shuffled warily over the icy ground as quickly as they could, doing their best to avoid an unpleasant spill. 

"T-thank you, sir!" Steve called back.

"Anytime, Rogers!" Lt. Barnes replied cheerily as he pulled away and disappeared into the crawling traffic. 

"I've seen you in my class, I think," Barnes remarked as the doors closed behind them. Steve thought a moment before nodding in acknowledgement; he was panting. Bucky's face betrayed his concern. "You okay?"

"Stupid... Cold air," Steve rasped, waving his hand in the general direction of where they had just come from. "Messes with my asthma." Bucky just nodded back, waiting until Steve had got his breath before walking again. They passed all of the older grades' classrooms as they continued down the hall, one of which contained Johnny Whyte leaning against the door frame. He sneered at them as they trekked by, but the pair ignored him. 

There weren't many children in their room, seeing as most families were able to look after their kids until they were eight- and therefore required to attend- but for the parents who had to work this was the most opportune way to get childcare. Miss Kora, an attractive woman in her late twenties, smiled at them warmly as her class of Kindergarteners assembled in their seats, helping to rid the room of its chilly atmosphere as she looked up from the furnace where she was stoking the coals. 

"Your coats go in the back room with your lunch pails," she said sweetly as more children shuffled in to join her scant company. Most ignored this decree and kept theirs on, burrowing under the layers or wrapping their scarves a little tighter. Kora smiled at this unanimous show of defiance before gazing over her students. 

"Can anyone tell me the date today?" Several hands- some gloved- flew into the air. "Tracy?"

"December 30th," came the shrill reply. 

"And what holiday is coming up in a few days? Bartholomew."

"New Year's." 

"Anyone going to Times Square in Manhattan for the Ball Drop with friends and family?" Fewer hands, and the increased negative shake of a few heads; Steve and Bucky among the latter rather than the former of these replies. "I see. If you could all take out your vocabulary books, we'll review the terms you need to learn by Friday..."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

They broke for a brief lunch and resumed their lessons around midday before school let out at about 3:00pm, at which point the very young children milled about by the windows searching for their parents while the older students set off reluctantly into the icy tundra. Bucky donned his jacket while Steve wrapped his scarf tightly against his nose and mouth before they braved the elements, heading with swift determination for the warmth of the indoors. 

Cars were honking loudly at each other like mechanical geese while people walked through the winter congestion that always seemed to appear with the first big snow, bundled up in solitude with their hats pulled over their ears and their hands stuffed deep into the recesses of their pockets. 

"I wish I had a muffler," Bucky sniffed. "My eyes and nose are running."

"A muffwer 'oudn hewp yuw aeyes," Steve grunted, frowning as a lump of snow fell on his tawny head. He shook it off irritatedly.

"You're sporting one, aren't you?"

"Yews." Bucky smiled at the furrowed eyebrows and narrowed eyes, just visible above the thick scarf. "Oosless." 

"Oh, I don't know. It seems to be doing it's job right enough."

"Saws you. It 'ets in 'old air ryle guub." 

"Then what's the point of it?"

"It nakes my moom happy."

"Ah." 

"Oof!" Bucky stopped walking up the slippery incline of the gently rising hill when he realised Steve was no longer with him, and turned back to find him struggling out of a big pile of snow. One quick glance at the roof overhead showed that it had been dropped in an "air raid" and temporarily incapacitated his scrawny companion. The troublesome scarf had come unravelled whilst attempting to extricate himself from the snow bank, and Rogers pulled on it but was unable to perform a successful rescue.

"Good riddance," he muttered. 

"Do you often get ambushed by falling roofalanches?"

"Shut up." But he was smiling broadly as he said it, even as his eyes began to water from the stinging wind now blowing into their faces as they turned the corner off of 86th St. The waterfront of Gravesend Bay could be seen in the distance, cold and bullet blue-grey as the icy waves carried large steamers over with precious imported cargo. 

"I've been tryin' to understand why you chose Bensonhurst over Manhattan," Steve commented as they ascended the snow-laden steps of his apartment building, stepping on creaking wood boards that had become suddenly old and brittle in the winter weather. 

"Never were much for the big city," Bucky explained with a sneeze. "Too crowded. But Brooklyn looked right enough to my pop or somethin', 'cause here we are."

"Mm."

"Only been here a few months anyhow. Moved in just in time for the new school year." Steve said nothing; his teeth were chattering as his hand fumbled the frigid key. The metal was cold enough that it seemed to be burning his fingers. They both sighed in relief when the door closed behind them. 

"I could tell."

"Tell what?" 

"That you weren't here long."

"Really? How?" Bucky sounded impressed.

"You don't have the drawl."

"... But neither do you."

"I'm working on it." A grin with gaps in the teeth. "My mum's Irish is a bad influence." The reply was a snort of suppressed laughter as Steve hung his soggy coat on the rack and shoved his shoes underneath, then paused in a half turn before picking up both articles and bringing them into the sitting room to be spread out before the dead furnace. He dragged a bucket over from the coal box and scooped quite a few of the dark lumps in before setting them ablaze with a few wads of flaming paper. 

"There're blankets in the cupboard over there," Steve said, pointing. Bucky opened it and grabbed two, but when he turned his friend was nowhere to be found. Dropping one on the couch and the other trailing from his shoulders like a cape, he wandered into the kitchen. A pot on the stove was being filled with milk.

"What'cha doin'?" 

"Making hot chocolate. Want some?"

"Is this a trick question?" A small smile, turning up the corners of Steve's mouth as he stirred the milk with a wooden spoon so that it didn't scald. 

"Mugs are in the cabinet next to the plates."

"Okay." As Bucky climbed up onto the counter- blanket dropping to the floor- he asked, "have you lived here your whole life?"

"Yep." Rogers left the stove and walked over to a small closet. There were shelves inside which held spices and powders; nonrefridgerations. He selected a tin and a few small jars, juggling them all expertly toward the slightly boiling milk. Bucky handed down the mugs and sat on the edge of the counter, legs swinging back and forth slightly; heels bouncing off the wood doors of the cupboards. 

"Huh. I used to live in Shelbyville, Indiana. It was real different from here."

"I'll bet." A few scoops of cocoa powder went into the pot, along with a pinch of nutmeg and some cinnamon. Steve turned off the stove and poured the molten beverage into faded blue mugs as carefully as a factory worker pouring steel into a mould. The silky brown liquid started steaming immediately as he handed the warm ceramic cup to Barnes, who took it appreciatively between cold fingers. Picking up the discarded blanket, he went back out to the sitting room; Steve followed and collected the second. They were listening to the radio five minutes later, cocooned in wool fabric and sipping gingerly at hot chocolate almost too warm to drink without burning one's tongue. Outside, the wind was blowing fiercely as a flurry of snowflakes began to fall. It was gentle at first, but quickly turned into a full-blown gale. The windows rattled at each strong gust, but the panes stubbornly held fast to their allotted places in the brick walls. 

It was during a particularly violent blast that a slight rapping at the door changed to a loud banging; urgent, desperate. Bucky looked over at Steve, who shook his head. He didn't know who it was either. Both children got up, placing the hot chocolate on a nearby table before heading toward the door. The banging turned to pounding.

"At last!" The door swung open to let in a swirl of snowflakes and a large, burly middle-aged man. He took in the blanket-clad boys with a smile, rotund cheeks glowing red with cold and merriment. Kind blue eyes that matched Steve's in color if not in intensity twinkled with laughter. He took off his hat to reveal a balding head encircled by a half-ring of graying golden hair. When he spoke, his voice carried with it a remarkably thick- and deep- Irish accent. 

"Hello my boy!" Bucky glanced at Steve for confirmation that this man was a known figure to the family, slightly relieved to see his companion smiling widely in an almost uncharacteristic display of affection. "How're things on this side 'o the pond?"

"Just swell, Uncle William!" The smile faded slightly when the small blond allowed himself to be practically crushed between two strong arms. When he was lowered to the floor again he asked,

"What brings you over? Did- is something... wrong?"

"Not t'all, son. Not t'all. I'm here on business. Thought I'd drop by. Speakin' a which, yer mother around?" Steve shook his head. Negative. "Shame. I 'as hopin' I'd see my sister before the buy-off... Ah well. Least I got ta see me favourite nephew."

"I'm your _only_ nephew," Steve pointed out with a smirk. 

"There! Ya'see? No competition!" William ruffled his nephew's hair with the utmost affection. He suddenly seemed to notice that Bucky had been there the entire time, asking, "An' who's this?"

"James Barnes, sir. I'm a friend of Steve's." Bucky extended his hand in a polite way of greeting; he soon found all the air squished out of his lungs as he was pulled into an impromptu bear hug. "Oof!" 

"Nice ta meet ya, lad." Steve opened his mouth to ask him in, realising finally that he was the host and that it was his job to do so, when William released Barnes. "Don' worry about invitin' me in, son. I only dropped by for a moment. I'm on a timetable, see." He took out his pocket watch, swinging it about the chain in a cavalier manner. "I migh' stop by at the end of the week when I head back ta Ireland." He ruffled Steve's hair again; it was in complete disarray as the bulky man donned his hat and opened the door. "Tell your mother I said hi."

"Goodbye, Uncle!" The door closed and the two of them simply stood there for a few moments, Bucky still trying to decide whether he appreciated the man's enthusiasm in hugging him or not, Steve attempting to repair the damage done to his hair by running his fingers through it continuously. 

"He's um... He doesn't get to see us all that often."

"... So I gathered." They returned to perching on the sofa with their mugs of now-cooler hot cocoa and sat listening to the radio for a little while. "What are your grandparents like?"

"Haven't got any anymore. My pop's two sisters died young, and Uncle William's my mum's only surviving brother after the War."

"Any cousins?"

"Nah. You?"

"Two. Don't know 'em all that well. One uncle, their dad, dead. No aunts anymore either. My pop was an only child."

"Grandparents?" 

"Just one grandma now. My pop's. Cousins live with her. He says we might go to visit 'em in a few years, once we get settled proper in our new home." 

"Oh. It sounds... Like it'd be fun." The reply was almost mechanical, flat and carefully neutral. Looking at the scrawny kid wrapped in a blanket five sizes too big sitting cross-legged on the cushion next to him, Bucky had to fight down a great swell of pity. Really, they barely knew each other; he sensed that Steve wouldn't appreciate it all the same. He let his gaze wander about the room. It was small but efficiently tidy, and laid out in a way that pleased the aesthetic senses. And in the corner, tucked behind an armchair with a fair amount of sewing and washing supplies stacked on top of it... A small piano, but a piano nonetheless. 

"My pop used to play every evening before I went to bed," Barnes murmured mistily, nodding toward the hidden instrument. "My mother would sing."

"It belonged to my grandmum," Steve replied. "My uncle says she loved to play... Till the war started, anyhow. Then everything changed." A long silence, filled with a chuck load of memories, began. The radio chattered on, oblivious to the fact that they had stopped listening long ago. Outside, a car honked loudly as the driver braved the terrible weather. 

"Hey," Bucky said, nudging Steve with his foot. "Wanna make a fort?"

"Huh?"

"You meanin' to tell me you haven't ever made a fort outta the couch pillows before?" Bucky stared at him, incredulous. Steve just shook his head. "Well, you're gonna make one now!" The brunet leaped to his feet, jumping off the sofa. "C'mon!" They set the now empty mugs in the sink- after rinsing them out to avoid incurring the wrath of Sarah Rogers- and raced back into the sitting room. Bucky quickly stripped the couch of its cushions and threw the blankets to the side. 

"Do you have a torch?"

" 'Course."

"Go get it. We'll need it when we're done." While Steve went to grab his flashlight Bucky began arranging the pillows- grabbing the ones from the armchair as well to add to his arsenal- so that when the blond returned there was the beginnings of a wall started. Barnes explained the construction, and together they completed the fort in no time at all. A small hole was open facing the furnace drying their coats and shoes to serve as a door. One blanket was spread from the back of the couch to the pillows and weighed down by books. The other was spread over the floor. They now had a cozy tent, quickly warming by their own body heat. Turning on the flashlight, they had an ample amount of light to see by. 

Inside they drew and worked on puzzles. When they tired of this, they began to pretend. They were defending their "trench" from the Austrian-Hungarians and the Germans, invisible guns in their hands and "battle plans" scattered all about the floor drawn in bright red crayola crayon. 

"Take that, Kaiser!"

"This is _our_ trench! We're not givin' it up."

"That's the cavalry! Ya better lookout!" Bucky stated as the rumbling of a loud car engine sounded from the street. 

" _Charge_!" Steve shouted, and it was at that point that they both collapsed into a mound of giggles, the blanket falling in on their heads.


	4. Life in 2D

"Steve, wake up."

"Mhmnnn."

"Steve?" No answer. " _Steve!_ " Rough shaking.

" _STEVE!_ " 

" _WHAT!?_ "

"Good, you're awake." Steve opened bleary eyes to see Bucky sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes sparkling with mischief in the early dawn light. He was smiling broadly, which revealed his missing upper front tooth.

"... Why are you in my house...?"

"It's Brooklyn Day!"

"... _Oh!_ " Steve was suddenly very, _very_ awake. It was June 5th, 1924; the first Thursday of the month. No school. And... He looked at his clock and saw that it was _6:45 in the morning_. "You got me up early just to tell me that?" He grumbled. "I'm goin' back to bed."

"Oh no ya don't!" Bucky grabbed him by the ankles and pulled his feet out from underneath the covers. "I came over to tell you good news and you're goin' back ta sleep? I don't think so."

"You could have come over and told me later," Steve retorted, the words muffled as they floated out from underneath his pillow. A morning person, he was not. That was one of the annoying things about Bucky Barnes. He _loved_ the morning. He practically _reveled_ in the misery of others forced to endure his predawn cheerfulness.

"C'mon," Barnes said laughing, still pulling him by the ankles. He was finding opposition, since Steve had grabbed the bedposts and was holding on with a stubborn grip. A sudden idea came to him, a perfectly _evil_ idea. "We've got things to do today."

"We can do them after the sun reaches the middle of the sky."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"At least I'll- _YIPE!!_ Stop that!" Steve started kicking to get his bare feet as far away from Bucky's tickling fingers as he could. "All right, all right! I'm up!" 

"Finally." It was let out in a long drawn out sigh, as if he had been waiting to say it for ages. "Your mum's already got breakfast started."

"When did you even get here?" Rogers yawned, sitting up and turning on his lamp. Rubbing his eyes he saw a fully dressed James Barnes with- surprisingly- combed hair. 

"About half an hour ago. Your mum said I had to wait to wake you up if I wanted to live through it."

"Words of wisdom."

"It's the only thing we can't agree on," Barnes replied mournfully. 

"Yeah, I'm gonna need a crying towel over that one."

"Punk."

"Jerk."

"Hurry up, you two!"

"Yes mum!" They replied. Bucky skipped out of the room with Steve stumbling along, wrapped in his blanket, after. _Honestly. There should be a trail of flowers following that kid,_ Rogers thought, wishing he could wake up like that.

"There you are!" Sarah exclaimed when Steve finally joined them in the kitchen. "I know it's parade day, but I have to get over to the factory early today, otherwise I would've let you sleep in some more. Now, you've each got a dollar. Don't spend it all in one place, you hear?" She kissed her son on the top of his head and affectionately ruffled Bucky's hair before putting on her light jacket and grabbing her purse. "I'll see you both later, I'm sure." Barnes looked up from his breakfast, a half eaten sausage skewered to his fork.

"We were planning to go to my house later, mum."

"Well, your father just called. It seems he's to liaison with an officer and escort him to a military camp in Virginia. It was very last moment, but he won't be home for a few days. I'd wondered why he dropped a few things off for you when you got here."

"Oh," Bucky said, glancing at Steve, who shrugged while taking a violent bite out of his toast. "Okay." 

"Bye!" Steve called, swallowing quickly to get the words out. Sarah waved before closing the door. "Escort, eh?" He asked, turning in his chair to peer quizzically at the brunet beside him. 

"Don't look at me. I had no idea." Rogers kept staring at him while spearing a sausage. "Stop it." Steve smiled as he turned back to his plate. He knew Bucky hated it when he looked at him that way. It creeped him out. 

"So what "things" are we doing today? We've got a dollar each."

"Wrong!" Bucky stated triumphantly, pulling two more out of his pocket and waving them in the air. "From my pop. One for you an' one for me."

"Sweet!" Steve exclaimed, accepting the offered bill. "We can get into all sorts of trouble with four dollars total." Bucky snorted in agreement, unable to chuckle as he had just taken a gulp of orange juice. They finished breakfast quickly, and while Steve went to get dressed Barnes filled the sink with warm water for washing. 

"You're drying," he said, throwing a dishcloth to a now dressed and brushed Steve Rogers. A comb was exchanged. "What's this for?"

"She ruffled your hair. It looks awful now." Frowning, Bucky looked into a plate to see his reflection. 

"Oh, you're right." Back and forth went the comb until it was neat again. "Tell me more about Brooklyn Day. I've never had it. I only know about it 'cause of Miss Kora. What's it all about?" 

"Well..." Scratching of the head. "Nobody really cares what it's about anymore. It's just this sorta holiday where all of the public school kids get the day off."

"But ya don't know why?"

"Better that way," Steve said with a shrug. "The less questions asked, the better." Bucky rolled his eyes. Typical. "There's a parade on 64th St, though."

"Huh."

"It only started up because there was a parade on Bedford Ave. every year and it was a big deal with the Campfire Girls and all, but 64th is a lot closer."

"Definitely." Bucky thought for a moment; they were near Bay Pkwy, closer to Stillwell and 86th than Bay Ridge. "We'll have to take a trolley car or somethin'." 

"Mhmm. I've got a few nickels in my coat pocket- hand me that knife, would you- so we're set for fare."

"So we'll go to the parade- careful, it's sharp- at...?"

"Noon. The rest of the day is ours."

"Cool. Umm...? What are we gonna do until then?" Steve gave him a smile _dripping_ with irony. 

"We wouldn't have this problem if you'd gotten me up later."

"Very funny."

"Honestly? No idea." 

"Great. We'll just ankle it then."

"Sounds good to me. We haven't got anything else to do."

"There's always the radio." They cringed when a plate went crashing to the floor, sighing in relief when it emerged unscathed. 

"We're still forbidden to use it, 'member?" Steve pointed out as he retrieved the dish and stacked it on top of the others. "After that whole rooster incident."

"I find that mighty unfair. How were we s'posed to know that chicken was still alive?" 

"Mum says that, just 'cause it was knocked out, doesn't mean it was dead."

"It wasn't movin' and the man said it'd kicked it. That was good 'nough for me."

"... Which is why it almost destroyed the apartment, Bucky." Barnes shrugged, which produced an exasperated shake of the head from Rogers. "Anyhow, there won't be much on 'till after three in the evening anyway."

"That's true enough- I think I washed this already- but still. Completely unfair."

"Agreed. Hand me another towel, would you? This one's soaked."

"Sure thing." Bucky paused in handing it to him, a thoughtful look on his face. "Y'know, I wonder what radio will be like when we're older. All they've got is... News and stuff. Real boring."

"Might not be boring to us then." Steve snatched the towel out of the hovering fingers and continued to dry. "Right, that's the last of the dishes. We're all done." As he placed it in the cupboard with the other glasses, Bucky let the water drain. 

"What _would_ be boring? I can't think of anythin' I'd rather do less than listen ta the news all day." Steve just shrugged his bony shoulders in response. "Anyway," Barnes said, letting the subject drop without any formality, "I wonder what's goin' on down by the water."

"Nothin' much. We might catch a steamer headed out for Europe, but everythin' interesting happens near the big streets." 

"If ya say so," Bucky huffed. He received a good-natured shove to his lower shoulder, which sadly did nothing but send Steve reeling away as he'd put too much effort into the movement. He was a few inches shorter than the brunette, so that his tawny hair just came up to his friend's ear-tip; the difference in build had always been painfully apparent, but for some reason it was even more so today to Rogers. He turned back to the stack of plates he had yet to find a home for, hoping the action would hide the red blush to his cheeks as he realized how small he was compared to Bucky. Luckily for him, Barnes' one-track mind had transferred yet again to the radio. He scowled at it, wishing he could listen in without defying the command of his superior while at the same time knowing that he hated the programs on at this time of day anyway.

"Ready to go?" He turned to see Steve sliding smoothly into his coat, then turning to pull on his shoes.

"Always."

The morning air was cool but warm as they stepped out into a brand-new day. Bucky marveled at the way life continued on for the early-rising children in the apartments around them even without the presence of parents; games were occurring on the rooftops and in the streets. Still more were climbing the fire escapes or descending the stairs to join in, and between the long curtains of drying clothes stretching from building to building were the secret meetings as friends sought solitude from the open road, sitting in the tiny balconies next to the escape ladders. Voices called to each other out of open windows, quickly silenced by a sharp word from the mother or father that hadn't yet left for work. 

It was almost eight o'clock when they passed by the barber shop on the corner and headed toward relatively unexplored lands as their street was left behind. They just kept walking, finding it more pleasant to stroll down the sidewalks without any particular aim or destination, just killing time until the parade would start. Taxi cabs went honking by as they warned pedestrians to avoid the road, swerving here and there to narrowly miss a trolley as it ground along too close for comfort. Grocers were unloading produce from farmers, who had pulled their trucks up to the stores after long and dusty drives from the disappearing countryside surrounding the Greater City of New York. There was a general whistle of appreciation from everyone in the street as a brand-new Harley Davidson came puttering along, slipping and sliding with practiced ease between the trolleys and the taxis as its driver rushed to get to his destination; compared to the Fords it was sleek and, though loud, had a great deal of character. 

"Wow. I'd sure like to get my hands around those controls," a farm boy commented as he helped his father deliver crate upon crate of fresh strawberries. The bloom had- apparently- run late this year.

"You can say that again!" His father answered. Spotting Steve and Bucky perusing the shop windows nearby, he caught their eye and threw them each a handful of strawberries out of the box. "Here ya go, boys. Happy Brooklyn Day!"

"Thanks, mister!" Steve called back as Bucky waved, a plump red berry already in his mouth. The juice was sweet, a bit tart, and burst like a firework of flavor between his white teeth. Their fingers and mouths soon stained crimson by the treat, they stopped at a park to guiltily glance around before washing off in the fountain. The water was refreshing as the early summer breeze did its best to combat the bright warmth of the sunshine, and they lingered awhile, sitting on the fountain's edge to be cooled by the fine mist spraying up out of the basin as the water fell in on itself. Bucky watched with curiosity as Steve took a pencil out of his pocket and rifled about a few moments longer for a scrap of paper, his interest becoming fascination as Rogers quickly sketched a reasonable facsimile of their surroundings. He took an eraser and gently rubbed some areas out, fixing them before moving on to another nonconformity and rectifying it as well. A quick glance upward every now and then; a shadow here, a dash of darker lines there. 

"How do you do that?"

"Hmm?" A gentle whack upside the tawny head. "Oh. No idea... That needs to be lighter." More eraser shavings to be blown away in the wind. "What d'ya think?" The drawing was presented for inspection.

"Almost... Lifelike. I can't believe you're not even six seeing this." 

"I'll be six in a month," Steve pointed out quickly. It was a sore spot for him at the moment, being one of the youngest kids in their class. Next school year, he'd be six like the rest of them. "I've just always been good at drawing, honest. There's no trick involved or anythin'."

"Darn it. I'm failing art period." 

"At least you're not failing gym." The smile Steve flashed was good-natured, but the words were tinged with the slightest bit of bitterness. It was one of the most embarrassing things for a kid to endure: if you were a boy and you couldn't catch a baseball at the age of two, much less five, there was little hope for acceptance until you learned. That was simply the way of things.

"We'll find a game of stickball or somethin' this summer and I'll teach ya how to throw. Deal?" They shook on it, as if the promise needed any such confirmation. 

"Whoa! It's almost noon!" Rogers exclaimed, glancing at his watch. "We'd better go!" He leaped to his feet and raced away, leaving the illustration abandoned on the fountain's basin.

"Right behind ya!" Bucky replied, unconsciously stuffing the drawing into his pocket as he dashed after his friend. They slipped through the crowd of pedestrians and dodged the trolleys, headed toward the sound of music and the converging masses. The pair realized in a quick glance that they'd never get to the edge of the street to see properly with all of the other kids and the adults who were lucky enough to get the day off, and ducked into a nearby alley where they climbed an apartment building's fire escape. Soon they had a good vantage point of the road below, and they sat with swinging legs watching the band march by. A troop of Campfire Girls came next, with the local Boy Scouts not far behind. It was old hat to Steve, who was still enjoying himself, but Bucky had never seen anything like this before. Back in Indiana, they had a parade on the Fourth of July just like everyone else; there were floats and bands, but never Campfire Girls or Boy Scouts. It was an entirely new experience for him, and when the parade had gone by he wasn't entirely sure what was supposed to happen next. Luckily for him, he had a well-versed tour guide to take him through the day. 

Brooklyn's children had developed a tradition for its own personal holiday. After the parade, the nearby diners were flooded; the draw was the milkshakes and the sodas. Or, mixing the two together, the kids with money to burn would create floats. The inseparable pair slid into a booth with a window view of the street; it was almost deserted now, but a few moments ago it had been filled with life, and it seemed to echo the energy even as a solitary taxi rumbled along, fading from sight. Taking one last sip of his chocolate milkshake before hitting the bottom of the glass, Bucky glanced down to see Steve's napkin filled with the memory of the parade. The blond wasn't even paying attention to it anymore, and was caught up in a heated conversation with a far bigger kid in the booth directly behind him. Thankful that he had also finished his shake, Barnes dropped the money on the table and grabbed Steve by the back of his collar, dragging him out of the diner.

"C'mon, kid. We've got places to see and things to do!" The napkin rubbed against the fountain drawing as they caught a trolley and headed for the bay. 


	5. Home Sick

**_ Day 1 _ **

_Everything ached. The world was spinning. It was antarctic. There was a wild storm brewing out at sea. The sky was a vacuum, all breathable air slowly being siphoned away. It was too bright, the ground like solid rock. And it was too noisy..._

"How ya doin', kid?" Bucky asked, walking into the sitting room.

"Can I die now?" Steve groaned, stirring under the thick comforter that had him pinned to the sofa. Two big blue eyes sparkling with fever peered out from underneath sweaty and unwashed golden bangs stuck to a glistening forehead, cheeks flushed red and slightly green.

"Yikes. You look like it."

"Thanks."

"Of all the weeks to catch the flu..."

"I'll make sure to keep my calendar clear next year." His voice was stuffy. A soiled handkerchief lay on the table next to him. Bucky frowned; he was leaving for a trip back to Indiana with his father and, even though he had embarked upon petition after petition to move the holiday to a different week so he could look after Steve, the pleas had fallen on deaf ears and they were going anyway. Lt. Barnes had explained to him that there was simply no other sizable gap in his duty roster to stay in Shelbyville for seven days. "Have fun. I'll see you when ya get back. Mebbe I'll have thrown this by then."

"Here's hopin'." Bucky winced as Steve sneezed, adding, "I'll call every night, 'kay?"

"James!" Lt. Barnes was calling from the street through the open window.

"Coming!"

"-Bye!" Rogers called pitifully, the "good" part of the word cut off by another sneeze. 

"Bye. I'll call later!" Bucky waved as he dashed out of the apartment, but not before casting a glance back at his best friend trying to fight off both an asthma attack and the flu all at once. Steve couldn't help but give off a tiny, weak smile at the hesitation. It disappeared quickly in the wake of a fresh bout of coughing, which left him with his head buried in the comforter and gasping for breath against a solid wall of fabric. Lungs screaming for oxygen and frail body racked with shakes, he burst out from under the blankets like a speeding bullet and crashed to the floor, feet hopelessly tangled in the covers. Panting, the blond lay there like that for a few minutes before freeing himself and climbing back into the insulated furnace, sighing as he felt warmth creeping into his fever-ridden limbs. 

"Glad he wasn't here to see that." There wasn't much to do when you were sick during the summer, and Rogers became acutely aware of this fact as the day dragged on; He had turned off the radio as it gave him a headache, and as a very, _very_ green reader he knew it was useless trying to understand what all the words meant, so that left novels entirely out of the equation. Instead he drew, starting with one basic outline of a lamp or something and then working on perfecting it until it looked realistic enough to satisfy his requirements. For someone who'd been six for only two weeks, Steve took his artwork extremely seriously. This kept him sufficiently occupied for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. It was incredibly late, and Sarah Rogers was about to order him to bed early to fight the illness, when the telephone rang. Steve's face brightened noticeably when the infernal ringing started up, and he raced into the hall with the blanket trailing in his wake as it clung to his shoulders.

"Hello?"

_"Hiya, kid!"_ Bucky yawned. His voice crackled over the receiver. _"How's your day been?"_

"Nothin' much happened," Rogers stated flatly as he leaned against the wall. He failed to notice his mother's faint smile as she disappeared back into the kitchen, headed toward the window and the drying laundry just outside strung up between the adjacent apartment building and their own. 

_"Feelin' any better?"_

"A little. You sound tired."

_"Yeah..."_ Steve could almost see Barnes scratching his unkempt hair as he chose his next words. _"It was a long trip, ya'know. I_ never _want to be stuck in a boiler for that long ever again."_

"You'll have ta if you're coming back to Brooklyn," the blond pointed out quickly, a smirk on his face as he heard groaning coming from the other end. 

_"Thanks for remindin' me."_

"You're welcome."

_"I_ know _you're smirking. Cut it out!"_ A chuckle proceeded after the words. _"Anyway, we drove past our old house. Pop was real stoked about his rose bushes."_

"Why, what happened to 'em?"

_"Well, they're gone! I'da never thought someone could be so protective of a couple 'o shrubs."_ Now it was Rogers' turn to laugh, but it turned into a coughing spree. _"That doesn't sound too good."_

"S'wat happens when you mix asthma with the flu, buddy."

_"Yick! Well, I hope you get better soon, but I haveta go. I get the feelin' mum wants you in bed."_

"You guessed correctly." Two blue eyes peered around the corner to see her hovering about the kitchen. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. 'Night!"

_"Night."_ There was a click and the line filled with static. Steve replaced the mouthpiece and slunk toward his bedroom under the stern gaze of his mother. 

**_ Day 2 _ **

"No! Come back!" Steve shouted as he chased an orange tabby cat around the apartment. It had come in through the open window after trapeziing the laundry line, and was currently wreaking havoc. 

"Marowwww!" It was taunting him, sitting on top of the ice box, and continued to caterwaul as he scrambled onto the counter. 

"C'mere!" The tabby nimbly leaped to the floor and streaked away, racing into the hall. Groaning, Rogers once again set off in pursuit. The day had started out so quiet and peaceful, too...

"Mrrrrrrm."

"Ugh! This is getting me nowhere!" Steve grumbled, slumping against the wall. He stifled a cough and sneezed into his elbow simultaneously, wondering what in the world he was going to do. "I need a dog." Pushing back strands of tawny golden hair so that they wouldn't fall into his eyes, he pulled himself to his feet and trooped back into the living room. There was the cat, calmly drinking out of his glass of milk. "There you are... Hey!" The chase was back on in a heartbeat, with the two of them jumping over furniture and ducking under tables, until at long last Rogers was holding the fiery ball of fur in his arms. 

"Hisssssss!"

"Yeah, yeah... "hiss" yourself. Now _out_." And with that he tossed the tabby unceremoniously out the front door and stalked over to the window, standing on tiptoe and straining with the prolonged effort of keeping his balance until he had lowered it to a small open slit. "And let's just see you try to get in _that_ way again!" The six year old collapsed on the couch and let out a long sigh before curling back underneath the comforter and nestling into the pillow, exhausted both by flu and by feline. He was soon asleep, drawing in quick, shaky breaths. He awoke to the ringing of the phone, remembering as he glanced out the window at the orange and red sky that his mother had had to work late that night and wouldn't be home until _after_ he was in bed. That left dinner and answering the phone all up to him. 

_"Hello!"_ Steve leaned away from the earpiece a bit.

"Hey. Anything interesting happen to you today?"

_"You betcha! My cousins took me fishing for the first time. I caught this_ huge _fish. Johnny was real impressed, but Tristan wished we would've got more."_

"How much older are they than you?"

_"Oh... Sixteen and nineteen, I think. Tristan's oldest, though. That much I'm sure of."_

"Like having older brothers?" 

_"I guess. But I'd prefer a younger brother any day."_ Silence on both sides of the line; Bucky didn't usually say mushy things like that. _"Ahem. So, what'd you get up to? Or was the couch the only place for you today... Doin' any better?"_

"Well..."

_"Oh, c'mon! Something really cool happened while I was gone, didn't it?"_

"Not cool, persay. A cat got in through the window and I chased it around the apartment for about a half hour or so before tossing it out. Reminds me of the chicken incident."

_"Can we stop bringing that up?"_

"It's a classic, and you know it."

_"Sure, sure. You sound better, anyway. Glad for that."_

"Me too. I hate being sick when it's summer."

_"There's just so much you're missing."_

"Definitely. But I'm gonna be fine by the time you get back. Maybe then we can go camping."

_"The roof awaits! But we'd need a tent."_

"We'll work on that later, 'kay?" 

_"Righto. Oh- gotta go! Tristan's gonna show me howta clean my fish!"_

"Have fun," Steve said as he suppressed a shudder. He'd _seen_ a fish being gutted once, and he never wanted to ever again. He hung up the phone and padded into the kitchen to scrape something together that resembled a meal.

**_ Day 4 _ **

"Today was a real drag," Steve murmured quietly into the mouthpiece. It was really very late at night, and his mother thought he was asleep; that being said, he'd waited until after she had gone to bed to call. "I mean, I've thrown the flu, but the radio broke down early in morning. Nothin' to listen to and nothin' to do."

_"That's a real pain,"_ Bucky sympathized just as quietly. No doubt his father thought he was sleeping, too. _"But at least you don't live in a house where every single floorboard creaks and you're on the top floor when the phone's on the bottom."_

"Did you wake your cousins up? You mentioned you had to share a room with 'em when we talked yesterday."

_"You kiddin'? They oiled the door hinges for me."_

"Huh!" It was a quickly suppressed laugh which escaped his lips. 

_"James? What are you doing up? I thought I told you-"_

_"Uh oh! We've been compromised, over!"_

"Copy that," Steve replied, eyes widening as a beam of light flooded the hall, originating from the living room, where his mother slept on the couch's pull-out bed. "It's no better on this end, either."

_"I feel worse for you than me, to be honest,"_ Bucky commented quickly before the line went dead. 

"And what hour is this?" Sarah asked. Then came the rhythmic tapping of the foot.

"Ummm....? Heheh!" Steve gulped with a cringe.

**_ Day 7 _ **

It was nearing late afternoon when Rogers drew near to his apartment building, the key tied, suspended and swinging, to a piece of twine going round and round in a circle as it twirled in his fingers. It was the first time that entire week he'd been allowed to leave and walk about around the block, but after his display of terrible cabin fever the previous day he had a feeling his mother would have let him hop on a boat to Miami if he'd wanted to. It had been good to stretch his legs and expend that cooped-up energy. But as he rounded the corner, Steve's day immediately changed from pleasant to putrefying. Coming toward him was none other than Johnny Whyte, the second grade's- well, third's now- most notorious bully. He quickened his step, sanctuary in sight, but it was too late. The gargantuan dummy had spotted him. 

"Hey, Rogers. Long time no see, huh?" At least he was alone, but that didn't help the scrawny blond as he was lifted from the ground and taken into the nearby alley that housed the fire escape and the garbage. "I've been meanin' to settle old scores for a while now, ya'know? And your little friend is nowhere to be found! Guess it's my lucky day!"

"Put me down!" Steve spat, kicking for all he was worth as he was pinned against the brick wall, the fire escape directly above them. "Or you're gonna-"

"What? Regret it? Doubt it. A little runt like you couldn't hurt a mosquito."

"I _mean_ it, Johnny."

"And what're you gonna do? I'm three times your size, squirt." 

"Doesn't... matter- off!"

"Keep struggling all ya want, shrimp. I'm enjoying every minute of it." Steve glanced up at the ladder when he heard a faint creaking noise, sharp eyes immediately noticing the rusting bolts securing it to the wall. His being slammed against a support beam might have had something to do with the impending collapse. Johnny was still oblivious to the danger, so, taking a deep breath, Rogers summoned every scrap of strength and energy his weak body possessed and sent it through his clenched fist into his aggressor's jaw.

"Look out!" He was thrown to the ground as Whyte reeled backward in shock; one scrambling desperately away over the grimy paving and the other falling backward onto a pile of rubbish as the fire escape broke with a snap and came plummeting down toward them. It fell across Steve's chest, his left arm the only defense between the heavy metal bars and his rib cage as it was thrown upward in an instinctual attempt at protection. Johnny moaned pitifully and began to wail as his ankle wouldn't come free.

"Mommy! _Mommy_!" But Rogers simply lay there, pinned alongside his tormentor and in much worse shape, saying nothing. He didn't even cry, though tears streamed down his face. The pain in his arm was like a thousand stars bashing into his head before falling into perpetual orbit to mock him. 

" _MOMMY!_ " After a while of caterwauling, there was the sound of footsteps as Sarah Rogers, still in her factory fatigues, rushed onto the scene.

" _Steven_! Oh, my poor baby- _help!_ Somebody, help!" 

"What is it ma'am- my God!"

"Help me lift it up." With the help of the nearby barber, she was able to create room for escape. Johnny shot out from underneath the ladder with a bruising chin but otherwise unscathed, turning to stare wide-eyed as Steve crawled slowly after. He hissed with pain at every jostle of his arm- it was clutched tight against his chest- and his eyes were streaming so much he was probably blinded, but still he didn't make a sound. Sarah scooped him up gently into her arms and hugged him close, tears stinging her own eyes as she sobbed into his tawny hair. A minute or so later she composed herself, and led Whyte by the hand into their apartment. 

"Check 'im first, mum," Steve managed to get out through clenched teeth. 

"Some mild scrapes, but nothing serious," she said promptly as she handed her guest a raw steak. He was still sitting in the chair she'd shown to him and hadn't moved since, numbly accepting the cut of beef and pressing it to his jaw. Sarah Rogers immediately knelt by her son, examined his face and then his chest, checking for broken ribs or sign of concussion before turning at last to his arm.

"It's broken," she announced, employing all of the self control her years as a nurse had awarded her, but the slight tremor in her voice was still audible. "We'll have to go to the hospital." Turning back to Johnny she asked, "What's your name, dear? I'm going to phone your mother."

"Whyte. N-number's, umm..." Eventually she got the number out of him, and went off into the hall to make the call. In the meanwhile, Johnny had turned to Steve.

"Why don't you cry? I was bawlin' like a baby and I didn't fare anywhere near as bad as you."

"What difference would it've made?" Steve replied, turning a pair of pain-filled and still tearing big blue eyes toward the boy who had tormented him for as far back as he could remember. "And I figure... I'll wait to lose it until I find something actually worth cryin' over. This?" He moved his arm slightly, wincing. "It's just a broken bone." A badly plastered, forced smile of bravado appeared on his face. "How's your jaw? I'm sorry I hit you so hard, but I tried to get you outta the way before it crashed."

"Oh... It's fine, I guess. It'll definitely heal a lot more quickly than that arm of yours. I tell ya, kid; for a toothpick you can sure pack a punch."

"I picked up a few tricks from Bucky Barnes."

"He'd be the one to get 'em from, I'll say that for 'im. Kid's a natural-born scrapper." He eyed the small blond oddly for a few moments. "I'm not sure what you are, aside from crazy maybe. But... Thanks. I umm, I owe ya." He extended his hand. "Truce?" 

"Hmm. Truce," Steve replied, accepting the handshake. 

"You mother's here," Sarah announced as she came back into the kitchen, followed closely by a rather large woman with dark red hair and narrow brown eyes. Johnny leaped up from the table and into her arms, the steak lying forgotten as he buried his face into her shoulder. 

"Thank you for calling me." She noticed Steve looking up and up and up and said to his mother, "poor dear. I hope it's nothing too serious."

"I certainly hope so too, Mrs. Whyte." As they left, the second-grade graduate cast a glance back at the frail boy two years his younger, the glance drenched with newfound respect. The Rogers immediately jumped into a taxi and hopped out at the hospital, where the doctors confirmed Sarah's prognosis and set about acting upon it. No one was there to answer the telephone, and on the waiting end Bucky sat for a good ten minutes after the last ring wondering what in the world was going on. When he called early the next morning before they left on the ride home, all he got yet again was a dead line. For the entirety of the car trip he was constantly telling his father to go faster and perpetually drumming his fingers against the window. 


	6. Artistic Bliss

Bucky called again when they got home late that night, but all he heard was:

_"I'm sorry James, but Steven's not up to talking on the telephone right now. You can come over tomorrow."_ **_click._ **

"Great," he muttered. "Kid's probably been hit by a trolley or somethin' and hovering on the brink of death." The next morning, bright and early, Bucky set out for Steve's apartment building. He was about halfway there when he simply froze. The sight walking toward him was just too unusual to not be shocked by. And then his mouth was working without consulting his brain- which was screaming that this was a terrible idea- and the words poured out.

"Hey, Johnny! What happened to _you_? Ya look like you were punched by a brick!" The third-grader turned in his step and walked up to him; Bucky braced for the beating which never came. He opened his eyes to see a rueful smile on Whyte's face. 

"Wasn't a brick. I ran into the Rogers kid a few days ago while you were gone on holiday. Left me somethin' to remember him by." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "I can see why you like hangin' out with him." And then he kept walking, leaving Bucky standing there, staring after him, dumbfounded. 

"What...?" He quickly recovered his wits and continued on his way, puzzling over what had just transpired as he knocked on the door. Usually he didn't bother, but things had been kind of weird lately. So he waited until the latch clicked and, to his surprise, it was Steve who answered. The gaps in his teeth added to his wide smile as Bucky stepped inside.

"Hey."

"Hey. I just ran into Johnny Whyte a few moments ago. Said you planted one on his jaw." He eyed the sling around Rogers' left arm; things began to make sense. "Let me guess. His skull's so thick you broke your wrist."

"Nah," Steve replied immediately with a laugh. "Johnny was gonna beat me up, but the fire escape broke away from the wall. So I punched him as hard as I could to get him out of the way. It pinned me. My arm saved my ribs."

" _What!?_ " 

"Yeah... So, the bolts were rusted and the entire thing collapsed into the alley. I'm lucky Whyte threw me to the ground or else I'd probably be in a hospital bed right now." As they walked into the living room he added thoughtfully, "Sorry I missed your call yesterday morning- and the night before that, obviously- but I got to the telephone just as it stopped ringing."

"Bad luck. You seem just fine, though. I called last night as well and your mum said you weren't up to talking." Steve glanced at him sharply before turning his head in the direction of the kitchen.

"I'm _fine_ , mum! It's just a broken arm. Not like I caught the plague or anythin'!" 

"Do you want it to heal badly?" Came the sarcastic reply that produced an eye roll from her son and a snicker from Barnes. "Good morning, James."

"Morning, Mrs. Rogers!" Sarah kissed each of them on top of the head before heading out the door to work.

"I love you. I'll be back after dinner, alright? It's penance for not going yesterday."

"Love you too, mum."

"Don't worry! We'll survive," Bucky said brightly as he wrapped his arm around Steve's neck, careful to avoid his arm entirely. 

"I'm counting on it," she answered with a smile. After the door had swung shut Barnes flopped on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his criss-cross-apple-sauced knees and rocking back and forth.

"All right, spill."

"What?" Steve asked as he took up the remaining half of the sofa. He received an attack by pillow to the top of the head. 

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." 

"Oh. Right. So it was the first time I was well enough to go outside, and mum was real tired of having me in the house all day because I was gettin' fidgety, so I took a long stroll to burn off some of the energy. Anyway, I'm almost home when Johnny comes 'round the corner, an' he pins me against the alley wall. But he shoved me into the fire escape's support beam or whatever and it was all rusty, so the whole thing collapsed on us. Mum got us out."

"But you actually managed to get a punch in on Whyte's jaw?"

"Yeah." Steve allowed himself a small, victorious smile.

"It's still bruised."

"Really? I didn't mean to hit him _that_ hard..."

"Not that he didn't deserve it, the oaf."

"True." Bucky was still eyeing his blond companion with a searching look. "... What?"

"He sounded like he respected ya when I met up with him on the way here," the brunet said slowly. "What'd you do for that to happen? He doesn't respect _anybody_."

"I guess... Because I didn't cry. All he got was his foot caught, not even sprained or nothin', and he was wailing for his mommy. But me? I got my arm broke and I didn't make a peep. Sure, I teared up, but I didn't cry," Steve explained modestly. Barnes was smiling at him, that odd, funny smile that made it seem as if he were bursting with pride and contemplating whether to smack him upside the head all at the same time.

"Well, good for you, sport." He nudged him playfully on his good shoulder. "Show 'em what being tough _really_ is. I prob'ly whudda bawled my heart out, to be honest. Never had a broken bone, but I've heard they're nothin' to laugh about."

"Ya think?" Rogers commented with a chuckle; there was a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"Shut up." 

"You wanna go walkin' around the blocks?"

"You sure? Your arm-"

"Is _fine_ as long as I'm careful with it."

"If ya say so, but it's _your_ funeral when mum finds out. Not _if_ , _when_. Got it? It wasn't my idea."

"But it wasn't."

"Exactly. And that's the story we're sticking to." Steve gave a tiny exasperated shake of his head, but he knew Bucky had good reason to be afraid. Unsanctioned strolls to the park when sick- for either of them- was a huge break in protocol. His mum was an unforgiving drill sergeant due to her days as a field nurse in the War; the two six year old boys had hardly even scratched the surface of shenanigans she'd had to deal with when faced with full-grown soldiers. 

Eventually Rogers managed to coax Barnes out of the apartment, and they headed for the nearby park. It was a neat and tidy place, with a pond at one end for ducks and a fountain at the other for children. In between was a wide open but gently cresting hill of grassy turf, the perfect spot for weekend picnics or a game of ball. The paths serving as the boundary were often decorated by colored chalk, and the trees lining them were always rustling their thick canopies as children climbed their trunks. Somehow it had escaped the notice of the commercial companies, who were always seeking such plots of underdeveloped land on which to build their apartments or businesses. In this way, its neighboring residents counted themselves lucky. For Steve and Bucky, it was the perfect place for doing nothing. 

There was an old, large oak tree that they loved to sit under on hot summer days such as this one, and more often than not during the warmer school months they would be studying their vocabulary words or history dates, solving math problems or struggling through their assigned books as they learned to read. This spot also offered one of the best vantage points to observe the whole park from. It was at the crest of the small but obscuring hill, upon which one could see all that lay in the dips to each side. This made it perfect for the artistically inclined, and more times than not they would find easels set up nearby. Today, there were about seven as they settled underneath the thick green canopy. 

"Y'know," Bucky commented as he stretched out on the warm grass, lazily chasing a grasshopper with a twig, "we're gonna get it for goin' out, but I just don't care."

"I hear ya," Steve murmured contentedly. He was lying flat on his back with one of his socks laid out across his closed eyes to avoid the annoying glare of the sun; both boys were barefoot after wading in the fountain and the springy turf was soft against their toes. They had been perched this way for quite some time as an older gentleman had come along with his easel and had kindly asked them to remain like that until he'd finished his painting. He was relatively well known among the park regulars as "the greatest painter the world never knew" and would be spotted all over the city with his color palette and special paper. Apparently, he found them a perfect subject to capture on canvas. No matter; they were drowsy from the heat anyway and happily consented.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Most obliged," the old man said softly as he ended sketching and opened his paints. 

"You're welcome," Bucky sighed as he rested his chin on his arm and closed his eyes. 

"Hey, Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Why is it that you can enjoy doing nothing when you're lazy, but when you're bored it drives you half-mad?"

"No idea. ... That's a good question, actually." 

"Hmm. Well, I'm too drowsy to care what the answer is."

"Me too, buddy. Me too." Lifting his stocking visor, Rogers glanced over at their admirer before lowering the sock back onto his face. 

"I kinda feel like I'm gettin' my portrait done, y'know?"

"Sure, sure... And my name's Robinson Crusoe."

"Shut up," Steve retorted with a smile. A butterfly drifted through the air and landed on Bucky's nose, its wings fluttering against his eyelashes. 

"That tickles," Barnes reprimanded the beautiful winged insect. "Stop that." The butterfly merely crawled up the bridge of his nose and over his forehead to perch in his rich chocolate-brown and tousled hair. "That's better." There was the faint but abrupt sound of pencil scratching as the old man added this rare detail to his canvas before going back to his brushes. "Careful, Steve. With your luck it'll be a pigeon."

"Very funny."

"I know. I'm _adorable_."

"Never in a million years."

"I'll get ya for that later."

"If we're still alive after mum gets through with us," Rogers pointed out.

"Oh. I'd forgotten about that."

"You don't live with her 24/7. I _always_ remember. It's why I reached the ripe old age of six."

"Now who's the comedian?"

"Point taken." They let their conversation drop at that point and simply relaxed under the oak tree, dappled sunlight and shade patterned across their drowsy faces. It was far better to enjoy the moment and ask- no, the correct term would be "beg"- for forgiveness later. The old man smiled as he painted, glancing up every now and then to see the two boys sleeping fitfully in the July heat. When he had finished his work he trod softly over to them and, bending down, gently shook their shoulders to rouse them.

"Hmm?"

"Whuh...?"

"I thought you vould like to be wakened before I left," was all he said.

"What time is it?" Steve asked drowsily, the sock falling off his face as he sat up, rubbing his eyes with his good hand.

"About four in the afternoon."

"Oh man, she's going to kill us!" Bucky exclaimed, the harmless words sending a bolt of energy coursing through his body.

"Your mother?"

"His."

"I see. vell," the man said, straightening with a slight grunt as his muscles and joints protested, "How about I explain vhy you were late?"

"Gee, that's awful nice of you mister," Steve said as he stood up. "But we weren't s'posed to leave the apartment in the first place on account'a my busted arm and all."

"Then I'm afraid there iss nothing more I can do for you. Good day, gentlemen. Thank you for your time."

"Don't mention it!" Bucky called as the painter hobbled away. When he was out of earshot Barnes turned to Rogers and asked, "Is it just me, or did he have the slightest bit of a German accent?"

"Not just you."

"Thought so. Wonder which side he was on."

"Does it matter anymore? He's here now."

"Guess you're right. Not like he started the whole war on his lonesome, anyway."

" _If_ he fought in the first place."

"Yeah. He'd still've been pretty old ten years ago. But he seems like a nice man." 

"Really, that's all that matters at this point." Bucky nodded, glancing at his wristwatch. 

"Oh man, he wasn't kiddin'! It's four fifteen."

"We're dead," Steve stated as he dashed after the brunette. His mother would know they'd been out if the dishes weren't finished when she walked through the door, and they hadn't even started making something to eat yet. 

"As dead as a couple 'o doornails," Bucky agreed.


	7. Coney Island

They weren't the only ones waiting for the train on the IRT platform. There were plenty others underneath the elegantly painted wooden sign hanging from the ceiling tunnel, waiting to catch a ride to Coney Island. It just so happened that they'd gotten first in line; to anyone else it looked like a family of four on an outing. But Lt. Barnes and Sarah Rogers were merely friends, although their two boys had become closer than some brothers ever were. The two brunets were celebrating John Barnes' promotion to 1st Lieutenant, and the blondes over Steve finally getting his sling off now that his arm had healed. But they were going together, as the inseparable six year olds would never have let their parents get away with their outings being split into two. And, in all honesty, they were hoping that, at some point, they might actually _be_ brothers if they wished- or at least created "dates"- hard and often enough. And so it was that Steve and Bucky leaped into the car as it rolled to a grinding halt while their parents boarded in a civilized manner after. As the other passengers were clambering on and shuffling past occupied seats, the quartet maneuvered their way to the middle, which seemed like a good enough place as any. The widow and the widower sat on either side of the two boys, who kept glancing at their escorts furtively with mischievous tilts to their eyebrows. 

It didn't take long for the IRT to transport them to Coney Island. When they got there, it was hardly surprising to see most of the train unloading its passengers all at once. Summer plus Coney Island equalled lots of people all going to the same place. 

"You've each got a dollar's worth of nickels in your pockets," Lt. Barnes said as they walked out into the crowd. He glanced around at the mass of people, intense blue eyes raking the throng before settling back on his young charges. "Meet us back here at _exactly_ 15:00 hours, ya'hear?"

"Yessir!" Came two shrill replies. The taller of the two hooligans had strongly resisted the urge to stand at attention at the usage of military time, the shorter the temptation to salute.

"That means _both_ of you," Sarah added. She glared sternly at the boys, who seemed to shrivel underneath her sky-blue gaze as Barnes' father tried unsuccessfully to smother a faint smile. "Alright, get outta here!"

"Yes ma'am!" Steve exclaimed, racing away with Bucky on his heels. They quickly doubled back and settled into the role as observant shadows as their parents melted into the crowd.

"D'you think our plan'll work?" 

"Eventually, even if it kills us," Rogers replied. They had recently become _very_ determined to have their parents remarry- preferably to each other- and had leapt at the opportunity to let them alone together for a spell at Coney Island. "You think they're on to us?"

"Most likely. Your mum's got the eyes of a hawk and dad's got the ears of an Airedale."

"Mmm. Still, we tried our best to be dis- diskrate?"

"Discreet?"

"Maybe."

"It's a big word."

"Yeah. Hey, do you smell hot dogs?"

" _Yes....._ " Bucky replied, his mouth watering. They slipped through the crowd in search of the enticing aroma, but were almost immediately derailed by the Skeeball lanes. Even the smell of food wouldn't keep them from enjoying the games. 

"Watch my pitchin' arm," Barnes crowed as he bowled the ball down the small lane. It hit the bump and flew straight into the air, spinning before landing in the gutter. "Oh, c'mon!" He glanced over at Rogers, whose face was set in grim determination. He seemed to be gauging the distance before throwing, and- whaddayaknow- it worked. He scored 100 points three times in a row with this tactic, much to the amazement of his companion. 

"How're you doing that!?" 

"Practice makes perfect, and I've been here about three times now."

"Nuh uh. You're just naturally the best pitcher I've ever seen in my life."

"You're only six, Buck."

"So? Look, next time coach wants ta put you in outfield just tell 'im you want a shot at the mound, 'kay?"

"If ya say so... Are you gonna finish your round, or not?"

"Very funny," Bucky growled as he resumed scoring a record total of zero points. A man came up and presented Steve two packets of chewing gum for his score of eight hundred fifty points, one of which the scrawny blond immediately tossed to his brown-haired friend. 

"And this award goes to the lowest score...!" He mock-shouted at a high whisper, imitating a crowd of cheering fans.

"Shaddup. Let's go find a hot dog stand to raid or somethin'."

"Nah, tell you what. Let's go on a rollercoaster. You ever been on one before?"

"Never."

"Great! Me neither," Steve said as he draped his arm over his friend's broad shoulders, stretching a bit to do so. "It'll be fun, I promise." He was smiling widely as he steered them toward the _Red Devil,_ where they were just tall enough to get on- if they were accompanied by an adult, where they were saved by a couple of teenagers vouching for them- and they waited anxiously for the ride to start. It began by slowly chugging up the hill, determinedly making its way toward the big drop. Near the front sat two six year olds, who stared with wide eyes at the steep descent ahead of them. Their hands gripped the safety railing until their knuckles were white, and neither would admit to the other that their teeth were chattering with nervousness. Then they were- quite literally- screaming downward, and eyes closed they awaited the great big ending _splat!_ which never came as the train evened out, rounded a curve, and flew up another hill before dropping down again. About half of the ride was spent without seeing anything, the other half water streaming from their tear ducts as the wind crashed into their faces. When they at last halted and were allowed to get off, Steve and Bucky shakily stumbled out of their seats and bolted for solid ground. 

"I could almost kiss the dirt," Barnes panted, "but I don't know where it's been. How about we never do that again?"

"Hear, hear," Rogers gasped. "At least until we're a lot older."

"Yeah." They sank onto the boardwalk with their backs against a building, catching their breath. "I wonder what our parents are doing right now?"

"We can tail 'em. I saw them fade into the crowd just now, near the shooting range." The two boys looked at each other, then reluctantly got to their feet and followed. What they found was quite frankly hilarious; Sarah Rogers was holding the rifle in the range, taking aim before hitting her mark right on the dot. Lt. Barnes was standing beside her with a lopsided grin on his face as the man who took the nickels dumbfoundedly handed him a dollar, obviously having lost a bet. 

"She's a regular ol' tiger, huh?" Bucky commented, nudging Steve in the ribs. 

"Your ol' man seems to be enjoying himself," Steve observed.

"Yeah. He likes proving people wrong and then sitting back and watching the chaos ensue."

"Mum _likes_ makingthe trouble herself, y'know."

"I can see that. What I _can't_ see is a big line in front of the hot dogs. C'mon."

"Do you ever think about anything _other_ than food?"

"'Course I do. But I fight it!" Steve shook his head before allowing himself to be dragged away from their parents. They ended up on a nice spot overlooking the beach, Barnes finally united with his beloved and longed-for hot dog and Rogers sketching the scene with his right hand while his left held his lunch. 

"I wish we could do this more often," Bucky sighed. He looked over at Steve with shining big blue eyes. "Thanks for going with me on my first trip to Coney Island. I'da been lost within five minutes without you."

"More like three, but you're welcome," the blond replied with a smile. He received a gentle whack to the back of his head in response. "Ow!"

"Yeah, yeah... You're small and defenseless. You're not fooling _me_ , kid. I know you too well." 

"No, it actually did hurt," Steve retorted crossly, rubbing the back of his head. He then returned the gesture.

"Ow! You're right, I'm sorry!" Barnes took a cursory glance around at their surroundings. "Where were we s'posed to meet our parents? I can't tell left from right with this crowd."

"Over thatta way," Rogers said, pointing. "In about... An hour and a half."

"Plenty'a time to get into trouble, right?"

"Buddy, you just read my mind."

"Yeah, 'cept there's nothin' to read. I'm gettin' a whole lotta static from that cranium of yours."

"I'll get you for that!" Steve growled, chasing after Bucky as he sped away across the boardwalk.

"You can try!" The brunet called tauntingly back. He glanced over his shoulder and skidded to a halt when he realized that the scrawny blond was nowhere to be seen, panic flooding over him just as quickly as he was thrown off his feet by the dead-weight slamming into his torso. "Oof!"

"Gotcha!" Together they tumbled out onto the beach, sand getting caught in their hair and finding a new home in their shoes and pockets. It was perhaps the only time Bucky ever remembered Steve winning in a fight- albeit a mock one- and when they at last broke apart he asked,

"Where'd you go? I was getting worried!"

"Knew I'd never catch up to you," Rogers crowed. "So I slipped into the crowd for a bit. You slowed up when you couldn't see me, and I jumped ya!"

"You've got an eye for strategy, I'll give ya that," Barnes conceded, emptying his shoe of sand and throwing his sock in his friend's direction. 

"And a nose for washing," the blond said as it wrinkled along the bridge, shaking the article of clothing off of his head. "Do you ever wash your stockings? I'm pretty sure they could smell those all the way back in Ireland."

"Only once or twice a year, whether they need to or not," the brunet answered smugly, retrieving the sock and slipping it back over his foot before tying his laces. "Ugh. my jacket's fulla sand. How 'bout you?"

"We'll be finding the beach for _months_ after this little caper."

"That's what I was afraid of. Well, c'mon. These nickels of ours aren't gonna spend themselves."

"Hey, wait up!" 

Despite their strong vows to never get on a rollercoaster again, the two six year olds found themselves occupied with trying to slip past the ticket masters- the gatekeepers- and onto one harrowing experience after the other until it was time to leave. They met their parents back at the entrance to the subway station and the quartet boarded the IRT back to Bensonhurst, where Sarah Rogers invited the Barnes back to their apartment. Steve and Bucky shot down the hall and into Steve's bedroom as soon as the front door opened, knowing that their parents would probably prefer a "grown-up conversation"-as it was referred to by all young children when adults discussed the news and other such topics which incited boredom- without them butting in. At around six they departed again for a nearby restaurant, where they had dinner before coming back afterwards. 

One of the neighboring tenants came by with his brother, and the adults started up a game of Bridge in the sitting room at about eight thirty. Bucky had snickered at the idea of Sarah Rogers playing, but Steve had quickly reminded him what a good player she was. His mum ended up winning two of the five hands played before their guests departed, after which the two boys were allowed to join their parents and occupy the floor as they worked on a few puzzles.

"Mrs. Rogers," Lt. Barnes remarked when he noticed the piano, "do you play?" Sarah looked up from the button she was sewing onto a shirt.

"Why, yes. Do you, Mr. Barnes?" John smiled.

"Oh... A long while ago. I was wondering if you were intending to teach Steve."

"Next summer, actually." Bucky chuckled as Steve groaned.

"Would it be any trouble if you could school James as well? I'm willing to pay-"

"You'll do no such thing," Sarah retorted sternly as Bucky's chuckle abruptly turned into a groan as well. Now it was Steve who was laughing. "I'll be glad to. That poor piano hasn't had much love since my mother died and left it to us. It'll be good for it to get some proper use." 

"I see no reason to wait until June," Lt. Barnes said as he stood, going over to the instrument and clearing it off in a tidy fashion. He drew out the bench and ran his fingers over the ivory keys looking for bad strings, feet testing the pressure of the pedals underneath. "In perfect condition, no less. Doesn't even need a tune-up." Glancing over his shoulder at his somewhat interested audience, John took a second or two to ponder what he was going to play before striking the keys with well-practiced fingers. The tune was unknown to either of the boys, but the clicking noise of needle on button abruptly cut off. The six year olds glanced over to see a smile on Sarah Rogers' worn but still pretty face. 

"I thought you'd recognize it," John remarked softly. He was entirely engrossed in the melody. They all simply listened for a few minutes, but then Sarah began to sing. She started out with a gentle hum to the familiar pattern, but then she went on to the words. Her speaking voice had lost much of its accent after living in Brooklyn for the last eight years, but when she sang it was rich and lilting, a proper Irish lower Soprano. The piano faltered in its rhythm, and there was an audible intake of breath from three people in the room before it fell back into its stride, seeming to gain confidence as the singing grew stronger.

_I see the moon, the moon sees me,_

_God bless the moon and God bless me:_

_There's grace in the cottage and grace in the hall;_

_And the grace of God is over us all..._

Steve's eyes were bright and shining- like a flawless lake on a clear summer day- as he looked at his mother. There were tears beginning to glisten in Bucky's as he listened to his father playing the piano again, humming along occasionally. And for a brief moment, all was perfect in the Heavens above and on the Earth below in a tiny little apartment on an insignificant street smack dab in a tiny corner of Brooklyn.

_I see the moon, the moon sees me,_

_God bless the moon and God bless me:_

_There's grace in the cottage and grace in the hall;_

_And the grace of God is over us all..._


	8. The Racket

"Please! It's not every day a kid turns ten, y'know!" Bucky was doing his best to hold his own against Sarah Rogers, who was about as flappable at that moment as a brick wall.

"I'm sorry, James, but I'm not sure I want you going to the nickelodeon all by yourselves."

"But it's his _tenth birthday_ ," Barnes stressed. 

"James-"

"I'll keep my eyes on 'im, alright? He's the closest thing I've got left to a brother. I won't let anything happen to him, I _promise_." He turned big, blue, and pleading eyes upon the woman he himself had unofficially adopted as his foster mother. " _Please_. Let me take him to a movie for his birthday." 

"Oh, all right," Sarah sighed. She seemed more tired than usual, impatiently brushing a limp strand of golden hair behind her ear. "Just... Be careful, the pair of you. It's dangerous, that part of town later in the evening."

"I know, ma'am. We'll watch our backs." He gave her a quick hug of appreciation and practically skipped into the sitting room, where Steve was scowling at the notes as his fingers danced nimbly over the piano keys. 

"I can't get this part down, here," he said as Bucky came up behind him, pausing in his practicing to point at a series of leaping sixteenth notes. 

"Mm. Me neither. But," Barnes said as he slid onto the bench, forcing Rogers to scoot over to the side, "How'd you like to go to a movie tomorrow?"

"Really?" They both winced as the notes clashed together in a cacophony of disaster, making the piece short-lived. "What're you thinking we should see?"

"Dunno. Guess we'll find out when we get there, huh? Besides, it's your birthday; your choice." The brunet flashed a winning smile, which was returned by the shorter blond. They heard foot tapping, and grimacing Steve resumed practicing. It would be Bucky's turn soon enough, so he simply stayed sitting there puzzling over the evil sixteenth jungle gym and wondering why anyone would be cruel enough to put it into a song. Suddenly, eyes narrowing, he slapped his pointer finger on a smudge in the sheet music before swiping it.

"Hey...!"

"I think I've found the problem," Barnes growled, cutting off Rogers' protest. He took an eraser and furiously began rubbing out the blot, which revealed a note to be three beats longer than before. Steve peered over Bucky's arm at the change, frowning.

"Y'know, it's funny."

"What is?"

"Such an itty-bitty note caused all these problems. See? Listen." The fingers ran over the ivory keys according to the revision, playing smoothly this time without any jarring pitch shifts.

"Well, wouldja look at that?" 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Late the next morning, both boys came stumbling out of Steve's room yawning into the warmth of a boiling summer day. Already, neighbors had begun preparing for the block party later on that night. Dressing and grabbing a bite to eat, they dashed out into the hectic streets which were filled with children and their games or adults and their burdens. The date was July 4th, 1928; a birthday for the country as well as Steve. 

"You're lucky, you know that?" Bucky commented as they dodged a trolley upon entering a busier and bigger street.

"Why?" 

"You'll never have school on your birthday. I get to do math problems for mine."

"Yeah, but at least you'll never have to share yours with your country's."

"That annoys you?" Bucky asked, incredulous. "I think it's the tops!"

"But everyone assumes you're celebrating the Fourth of July!"

"So? You are. Just in a different way."

"Never mind," Steve muttered with an impatient sigh. Neither of them said a word as they edged closer to each other when they left their neighborhood and entered the adjacent one, which was famous for being less than pleasant toward outsiders after the sun went down. Nor did they mention how their pace quickened noticeably until they reached the nickelodeon, where they viewed what was about to play.

"All of these are either too boring or too grown-up for us," Steve whispered in Bucky's ear. "If we tried watching _that_ one, for instance-" here he pointed to a ghost story- "mum'd skin us alive." 

"What about this one?" It was a childish comedy, but it looked a lot more interesting than the other options. Rogers smiled.

"Looks good. Whaddaya say?"

"After you, Mr. Rogers."

"No, no, after _you,_ Mr. Barnes." They deposited their nickels for the tickets and then fifty cents for a bag of popped corn to split between them, and headed into the theater. It was mostly full of older kids and devoid of especially young ones or adults, which gave them a sense of peace. There would be no screaming, no annoying kissing sounds, and no one to tell them to keep quiet even if they kept the volume to the lowest of whispers. They waited in anticipation for the premier event through the cartoons that preceded it, frowning when the reel suddenly stopped. An usher came to stand in the very front.

"I'm terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen. It seems the scheduled film has been lost somehow."

"Lost?" A boy behind them scoffed. The ruffled usher apparently didn't hear.

"Instead of the previous movie, we will be showing _The Racket._ Those who would prefer to leave will be refunded for your tickets at the front. Good day." A short bow, and then he left. Low murmuring broke out all across the theater room. Some people got up and walked toward the exit. 

"What are you thinking?" Bucky asked. Steve opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a girl in the row of seats across the aisle from them.

"My brother saw it in June, says it was real swell."

"Sounds good," Rogers finally decided, his smile revealing the missing teeth that were starting to grow in. The screen went dark for a few moments while the projectionist switched filmstrips, and then the movie started. A music track came through some speakers, amplifying the gramophone as the needle wound its way through the record's grooves.

"They say they're going to be making a picture with sound in it come fall," the mysterious girl said again. This time she was talking to her friend.

"Really?" The second girl asked. Neither seemed to be aware that Steve and Bucky were listening to them as the credits rolled across the screen.

"Yep. They say you'll be able to hear 'em talk and all of it."

"That'll be the cat's pajamas, I reckon. Bet all the films'll have that in a few years." 

"Shhh. It may not have sound right now, but I'd liketa pay 'tention." 

"Oh, alright. I just hope it isn't boring, and that your brother wasn't leading us on."

"Why would he?" Needless to say, in under five minutes there were already guns being fired from windows. It boded well for the film. Steve and Bucky watched with rapt attention, eyes wide and fixed unblinking to the screen as the bootlegger Scarsi went toe-to-toe with the police captain McQuigg. Spellbound they read the dialogue scenes, letting out breaths they hadn't known they'd been holding when the kingpin of crime's little brother was nabbed in a hit-and-run. Scarsi's world began to unravel due to a couple of reporters and a nightclub singer, and when it finally occurred to the two boys that it had all been McQuigg's doing, confused frowns changed into knowing smiles. They enjoyed the banter and the gunfire, but relished most of all the finality of the conclusion. Scarsi's death seemed to them an unsatisfactory end, seeing as he was never brought to trial and his corrupt politicians were never exposed, but the good guys had still won.

"I didn't know Thomas Meighan could look so put upon," Bucky commented after the film had run its course.

"He was going up against Louis Wolheim," Steve pointed out. "The man's notorious for playing lowlifes like Scarsi."

"But as a leading man I didn't figure he'd be so troubled."

" _Everybody's_ got troubles, Buck."

"But not _Thomas Meighan_." The blond gave his friend a funny look as they left the theater and headed for the main room containing the ticket counter. 

"Well, who'da thought?"

"Thought what?"

"That an _actor_ would be your idol," Rogers stated as if it were perfectly obvious, chuckling. Barnes didn't laugh back, and instead raked his usually cheerful but now serious blue eyes over his scrawny companion.

"You really don't see it, do you?" He muttered as they leapt from the curb onto a passing trolley, clutching onto the railing before steadying their feet.

"See what?" Steve asked as they each tossed a nickel to the man in charge of that sort of thing. Leaning over the railing at the back, Bucky answered,

"Oh... Never mind. I doubt I'd be able to get it through your thick skull anyway."

"So I'm thick, huh?"

"You have your moments."

"So do you," Rogers retorted with a smile as he turned his attention to the street speeding away behind them. Barnes sighed long and low, letting the air seep out between his teeth as he glanced out of the corner of his eye with indefinable admiration at the sickly boy standing beside him. The trolley got them back into their own familiar neighborhood, into an area of safety, and by then it was well into early evening. Most everyone had congregated in the vacant lot across the street from Steve's apartment building, but they knew it wise to report in before heading over.

"Mum! We're back!" Steve called, the door swinging wide open. They were met by Lt. Barnes, bedecked in his dress uniform.

"Oh. Hi, pop!" Bucky quickly added.

"Boys," John replied with a smile, tipping his cap slightly.

"There you are!" Sarah exclaimed upon seeing them, coming into the hallway. She was trying to fix her hair without a mirror, but her creamy white dress with red sash ribbon and grey dots was perfect. "What do you think?" She asked the Lieutenant. "Too bright?"

"Not at all."

"Are we going to the block party?" Steve inquired, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Yes, yes we are," his mother answered, frowning as the golden locks sashayed right into her eyes. "After I fix this mess." She disappeared again into the bathroom, leaving them in the hall. Bucky began humming a tune he'd heard on the radio while they waited, one that was familiar yet somewhat new from the year before: "Blue Skies" by Irving Berlin. 

"-Nothin' but blue skies do I see..." Steve sang under his breath, only half paying attention to the rhythm. He was gazing through the living room and out the window at the still-bright summer sky of evening. "-Bluebirds all day long..." He couldn't help but think that the world was perfect on a day such as this. And then he remembered his father; Bucky's mother and younger siblings. No, this world was _far_ from utopia. 

"Ready," Sarah finally reappeared, hair cooperating at last, falling in golden curls to her shoulders and down her back. "How does it look now?"

"Perfect," John said with a smile, taking her arm as Steve and Bucky scampered ahead.

Fireworks went off around 10:00pm, colorfully illuminating the guys and gals dancing to the new music: Jazz. Swinging and swanking, hot and cold, it was quickly becoming an integral part of America's culture. The girls were jumping rope in the street, sometimes ending up in the middle of a game of stick-ball or- once someone had got the bright idea of punching a hole in the bottom of a wicker basket- basket ball. It was in the alleys that both played ringalevio, a more sophisticated version of the usual tag. Hinegoseek slipped in and out of the food tables of conversing adults, most often ending with a sharp reprimand every now and then. Eager to show off his pitching and catching skills learned the summer before, Steve joined in a game of good old-fashioned stick-ball with Bucky eagerly following directly behind. Predictably, the ball ended up in the sewer at least five times, but was rescued by a teenager who was willing to sacrifice his personal hygiene for the sake of the sport. When Rogers finally got his chance to throw, the ball went flying into the bats and paddles of a group of older boys. The wood smacked the leather, and it went soaring through the air, hit a pole, and bounced right back into Steve's waiting hand. He stared at it incredulously for about one second before shrugging and lining up another stupendous pitch. It was "no rules baseball" at its finest for Brooklyn's kids, who treasured each high-flying moment of it. Right then, in the summer of 1928, New York celebrated the birth of its country with genuine American soul and spirit, proving that The War wouldn't linger forever, and that the scars were already being washed away. Prices were high, wages rising, and Europe was a whole ocean away. Life was good. 

_-Blue skies, all of them gone, nothin' but blue skies from now on..._


	9. Crash and Burn

Steve cast a furtive glance about him before spitting into the shoe polish to moisten it up, quickly stirring the saliva in with a small wooden stick- the kind they used in paint- and watched as the slowly hardening tar fell away from the sides of its container to resemble more to raw oil. He coughed as a beaten and battered Model T went rumbling by through a puddle, showering him with mud and choking him with noxious fumes. 

"I saw that," came a snickering voice. It made the blond jump and spin around before relaxing.

"Geez, Buck! Give a guy some warning next time, would ya?" Steve grumbled, settling back into a half-crouch and picking up the rag, running it back and forth briskly over a pair of worn shoes. Their owner's face remained obscured behind today's newspaper. The vendor which sold it was stationed directly adjacent to Roger's little business, as it had been agreed that both attracted more people together than alone. A disheveled radio was playing music into a "cobblestone" road that had been slowly filling with deadbeats over the past few months. 

"How's it going?" Bucky asked, adjusting his suspender strap on his shoulder before picking up a secondary rag and starting work on the next victim's loafers.

"As good as can be expected, I guess," the eleven year old responded tartly. "I mean, we wouldn't be doing these gigs if it was easy money."

"Hmm. This paste needs a bit more water," Barnes commented, shamelessly spitting into the bucket and stirring. 

"How about you? I heard you crashed your bike on your newspaper run last week."

"What? Oh, fine," Bucky said absently, avoiding his gaze. The towel stopped making its zigzag motion. 

"Buck."

"I got a few bruises, but hey, it earned me a few extra nickels," the brunette retorted defensively. "And the bike's fine. Can't say the same for Mr. Hyde's rose bushes, though." 

"Poor guy. He needs to move to Queens or somethin' if he wants them to survive more than two weeks in front of his apartment building."

"Yep."

_"-This just in. The stock market... Has completely bottomed out. Spectators are already calling it the "Wall Street Crash." Men have been spotted jumping from the half-constructed Chrysler Building as their fortunes vanished before their eyes. This is the worst depression America has ever faced, ladies and gentlemen..."_ The street had gone eerily quiet as passerby stopped to listen to the radio announcement. Cars idled as their drivers kept lead foots on the brake and peddlers' horses stamped their hooves as they waited for the carts to begin moving again. All at once the activity picked up where it had left off, like a record coming out of its looping repeat, and they all continued on their way.

"Great," Bucky mumbled, applying another coat of "spit shine" to the customer's shoes. "That means pop's military payment'll be reduced again."

"And mum's salary from the factory," Steve chimed in. 

"We'll all have to suffer through, I guess. Not just us, I mean. America as a whole. That Dust Bowl thing going on out west? It'll affect everyone."

"You better believe it," Rogers agreed glumly, peeling a piece of caked mud off the man's shoes with a small chisel-like bar of metal. He'd been at the job every day for the past month after school let out, trying to earn some extra money. His mother wouldn't admit it, tried not to let it show, but she was tired and weak. Steve and Bucky had first noticed her declining health when the factory gave her extra hours if she wanted to keep her salary. And while everyone was tired nowadays, it seemed to hit her harder than most. Lt. Barnes had had to make compromises to keep his pay even, and so he was off in New Jersey at the army camp there all week, coming home on the weekends. But the two boys- despite their parents' protests- had gotten small-pay odd-jobs to help in any way they could. So every morning Bucky got up exceptionally early to deliver the newspaper stacks to apartment steps as he rode by on his bike, and they arrived home at sunset. Studying was completed immediately, and after dinner they practiced piano. This schedule left little to no time for relaxing, although practice was as good an occasion as any to hum along to the somewhat discordant tune being beat out of the black and white keys. Because of John Barnes' on-camp living arrangements during weekdays Bucky had been staying over five out of seven, and had pretty much moved his belongings into the Rogers' apartment.

"Steve?" No answer. "Steve!"

"Oh, sorry. I was... thinking."

"Obviously anything but what's happening around you," Barnes whispered. "You've been applying the same coat of polish to that guy's shoe for the past five minutes."

"... Oops," Rogers sighed, quickly taking the rag and shining the loafer until it almost glowed. To avoid inconsistency, the same amount of time was spent on the other half of the pair, and with a whistle of appreciation the customer admired his reflection in their ebony surfaces.

"Haven't gotten a shine this good in months," he remarked, tossing Steve a two bit piece and walking away. Bucky stared with wide eyes over the blond's shoulder, and they looked over every aspect of it until they were sure it was real. Neither had seen one in a while, though they'd handled plenty of fins purchasing produce from the traveling carts and staple goods from the corner store for their meals.

"Wow... Thanks, mister!"

"C'mon, Stevie," Bucky said as he finished the last man's shoes and received his nickel in return. "We need to get back home. There's our vocabulary to study before the test tomorrow, and our sums."

"I hear ya talkin'," Rogers answered as he cleared up the can of polish and emptied the money out of his blue-green hat into his pockets. Barnes glanced back to see the brim askew and off to the side with the flat part pulled a little ways to the left, giving one the impression that the blond had just come straight off the boat from Ireland. Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, the Indiana farm boy sidled along beside his scrawny companion down the sidewalk, out onto the street, and over a few blocks to the apartment. Predictably, no one was there when they got back, and they flopped stomach-first onto the floor with their schoolbooks spread out before them. Papers were strewn all over, pencil rolling along to hide from their owners.

"On second thought, I'm just gonna lie on the couch and go to sleep."

"Oh no, you don't!" Bucky grunted as Steve got up and sat right in the middle of his back, effectively pinning him to the thin carpet. 

"I think you cracked a few vertebrae doing that," he grumbled. "Gerroff."

"We need to study," Rogers growled stubbornly, crossing his arms. "Unless you _want_ to fail our test tomorrow and get on both our parents' bad sides."

"Ugh!" Barnes sighed, making an effort to extract his arm from where it had been pinned under his chest and grabbing his notebook. "Fine. Now _get off_. For a shrimp, you weigh a ton."

"Wimp," the blonde snapped, but rolled off onto the floor all the same. They reluctantly endeavored to complete their math sums, struggling through the senseless word problems and soaring over the relatively simple additions before going on to vocabulary.

"Um... S-P-E-C-I-F-I-C?"

"Yep."

"P-E-R-M-A-N-E-N-T."

"You got it."

"Of course I do," Steve retorted loftily with a suspiciously mischievous gleam in his eyes. "I'm the word master."

"The power's already gone to your head, too," Bucky muttered with a snicker.

"Heard that. Your turn."

"...Ooooohhh, all right," the brunet sighed dramatically. "T-Y-P-H-O-O-N, A-P-R-I-C-O-T, R-A-V-E-N." 

"Dead on."

"Y'know Steve, I've been racking my brains tryin' to figure out when we'll use any of these words in everyday conversation and I keep coming up blank."

"No change there then. YIPE! Get your foot out of my face!"

"You started it," Bucky taunted, laughing as he sprang nimbly after Steve. The blond dodged away, scrambling under the only table they could still get under. Even so, it wobbled quite a bit as Barnes grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him out from under it. "Got you!"

"We'll see- off!" In a flurry of flying elbows, the radio was switched on. A serious announcement detailing more and more deaths as people leapt from the half-constructed Chrysler Building in Manhattan was enough to subdue their spirits before the fight had even truly begun. "Turn it off, Buck." 

"Righto." The two boys sank onto the couch, sitting in silence for a while. The sun was getting lower and lower in the sky, tingeing the clear blue expanse deep reddish-gold. 

"We um, we should get dinner started, I think," Bucky finally said when the clock chimed six-thirty.

"... Yeah." As they entered the kitchen, Steve reached up and got down a jam jar sitting on top of the icebox. It was about half-filled with pennies, nickels, dimes, and the occasional quarter; he took the change out of his trouser pockets and dropped it in before returning the jar to its resting spot. Bucky began filling a pan full of water while Steve prepped a pile of green beans, snapping off the ends. When the water was heated they dropped the whole lot in, along with a few cut and peeled potatoes and onions. While this was simmering a loaf of bread was sliced, and some already cooked ham was taken out of the icebox. This was thrown in with the vegetables, and while Bucky minded that Steve went to retrieve the mail. He came back with three envelopes- all addressed to his mother- but the fourth he held curiously in his hand, simply staring at it.

"What's wrong?" Barnes asked. Steve jumped, startled.

"Oh, uh, it's umm... It's addressed to "Corporal Joseph H. Rogers..."

"Lemme see," Bucky said gently, prying the envelope out of his friend's clenched fingers. "It's his pension. The government's giving your mum $81.80 for his military service this month."

"No, I know. It's just-" Rogers left the thought unfinished, incapable of formulating the words. 

"I understand, pal," the brunette continued sympathetically. "About a year after my mama died we got a letter from a friend of hers that had gone to France or somethin'. My little sister Rebecca was still alive then, and she asked me why mama didn't read it herself." His eyes misted, and he wiped the tears away before they properly formed. "Lost her a week after to the same illness..." Making an effort to laugh, though it sounded hollow, he added, "I guess my family's just got bad luck."

"Don't say that-"

"It's true, though."

"You weren't the one born with every health issue known to man," Steve suddenly snapped. The moment he said it he wished he hadn't. "... Sorry. I meant- I meant that you at least got to know them before they- and-"

"Meh, it's okay, punk." Bucky smiled sadly. "We all say stupid stuff every once in a while... Some of us more than others."

"Jerk."

"You're completely right, anyway. I mean, half a year after I lost my little sister, I got a new brother, so..."

"Ditto. Are we good, then?" 

"Yeah. Let's eat." 

They were still cleaning up when Sarah Rogers came home, exhausted and tetchy. 

"Homework?"

"Yep. Plenty." "Yeah. Lots." The two boys looked at each other for a moment or two before Bucky continued speaking.

"We still haven't finished our mathematics." 

"Well by all means," Sarah sighed, "finish that. You don't have to practice piano tonight." A tired smile faintly turned up the corners of her mouth as their faces brightened at this declaration. "But I want to see you studying, you hear?"

"Yes ma'am!" Steve said enthusiastically; they both hated learning piano. Bucky was grinning as he dried one of the plates, adding it to the leaning tower on the counter. 

"Be careful with those," Sarah added. 

"Sure thing, mum." When she had retreated over to their elderly neighbor's nursing a headache, they sprawled out again across the living room floor to finish their sums. Completing these about half an hour later- at which point the time was around nine o'clock- they went into the bathroom to prepare for bed. It was unseasonably chilly for November this year, and as they nestled under the covers of his bed Steve was drawn to snuggle closer to Bucky's furnace-like body, the heat which was most likely the only reason he was still alive after the winter from the previous year. Rogers had quickly learned to sleep perfectly still, with legs completely straight and arms flat against his sides to prevent jabbing his friend with his sharp knees and elbows. Barnes, on the other hand, was not so subconsciously considerate; he would spread out while he slept and then proceed to toss and turn. Several mornings he had awoken to find the scrawny blonde curled in a tight ball on the floor, cocooned in the comforter with a pillow as far away as possible from the window. But worse than the thrashing was the muttering, if Bucky fell asleep before Steve did. It could range from absolute gibberish to a long line from one of the more recent films, and it drove his companion stark-raving nuts.

"Cut it out," Steve snapped as he ribbed his friend with an elbow; tonight was not exempted from his sleep-talking. Barnes, always a deep sleeper, simply rolled over so that his face was muffled in the covers. His arm whipped out and flopped over Rogers. A light sleeper in general, this didn't help his attempting to drift off.

"Oof!" He struggled for a few minutes but to no avail; the brunet wasn't going anywhere. Grumbling protestations, the blond surrendered to the idea of another sleepless night- although not for lack of trying... 


	10. All Aboard for Dreamland

It was June 24th, 1930, and Steve would be leaving Brooklyn for the first time in his life as he went with the Barnes for a visit to Shelbyville, Indiana. Really, it was most likely the best time to do so; it seemed everyone who could afford to were headed for Manhattan just to get a glimpse of the Chrysler Building, newly completed just the month before. So while there would be a huge increase in traffic within New York, they'd be escaping into the country.

"I can't wait to get out of here," Bucky commented as they sat on the edge of the Rogers' apartment roof. "I mean, I love being in the city and all, but during the summer I kinda missed swimming in a real actual lake and getting lost in the woods.

"There are woods near your cousins' house?" Steve asked, intrigued. Aside from pictures in the classroom, he'd never seen one- unless you counted the jungle of industrialized Bensonhurst, and he didn't- and was understandably curious. 

"Mmhmm. And plenty of lakes and creeks, too. I keep forgetting you've never been swimming before. We'll fix that soon as we get there, okay?"

"Sounds like a deal to me. And I'm sorry about your Grandma."

"Yeah... She died peacefully, though, and lived a full life, so- I guess that's all that matters in the end, huh? But at least you'll get to meet my folks." Steve shook his head. "What?"

"I've never heard anyone call their cousins "folks" before, is all."

"Most people don't," Bucky pointed out. "You all packed?"

"And ready to go."

"At least we're taking the train this time. Dad says he'll _never_ drive to Shelbyville and all the way back to Brooklyn ever again."

"And he's smart for saying that."

"Exactly."

"I've never been on a train before, either," Steve admitted. "This trip'll be filled with lots of firsts."

"I haven't either, to be honest. Pop hates 'em."

"Do you know why?" Rogers asked, eyebrows furrowing quizzically.

"Nope. I'm as in the dark as you are. But he hates long drives even more." 

"James? Steven?" It was Lt. Barnes.

"Coming!" They called, scurrying down the fire escape and through the ladder window into Steve's apartment. They grabbed their cases and hurried down the stairs, out to meet Bucky's dad. Sarah Rogers was already there, and seemed to be explaining something important to John. 

"-He probably didn't pack one, so here's a spare just in- hello, Steven. James." She knelt to be face to face with her son. "Have you got everything?"

"Yes, mum."

"You're sure?"

"Yep. Even a syringe and extra doses of epinephrine." Instant relief followed this statement. 

"Good."

"I've always got one with me anyway in my pockets, just in case. Figured I'd better bring it along since we'll be gone for two weeks- aww, _mum_..." Steve protested as she kissed him on the cheek.

"Now take care, alright? I'll see you soon."

"Goodbye, mum. I love you too." Sarah then turned to Bucky as Lt. Barnes began loading their luggage into his old Model T. 

"Look after yourself, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," Bucky replied as she affectionately ruffled his hair.

"I wouldn't worry about them," John said cheerfully. "They can handle themselves."

"Exactly," Sarah replied teasingly. "That reminds me, James; make sure your father comes back in one piece."

"We'll take good care of him, don't worry!" Steve called from the Ford as Bucky climbed up beside him. 

"All right, get out of here!"

"Yes ma'am," Lt. Barnes answered with a tip of his hat. He looked oddly out of places in civvies, but the military tilt of the Fedora made the turnout all right. "We'll see you next month!"

"That's right," Steve commented as they pulled away, heading for Grand Central Station in Manhattan. "It'll be my birthday while we're there." 

"I wouldn't mention it to my cousins," Bucky warned. "They like playing pranks on peoples' birthdays. We'll do something special for it and chalk it up to being July 4th and all."

"Why? What kinds of things do they do?"

"They threw me into the lake one year and they had to break the ice to do it. Almost caught hypothermia 'cause of them."

"It wasn't that bad, James. You were barely wet-"

"Yeah? What about the year they shaved your head for your 27th?"

"Point taken."

"Hey... Dad?"

"Yes?" 

"What're you gonna do with the car once we get to Grand Central?"

"Our neighbor down the hall usually takes the subway to work, but he was kind enough to offer to drive back home today. We'll just park outside his office building."

"... Oh. Okay." 

"Sir? Why aren't you in your uniform today?"

"Because, Steven... I'm in disguise."

"Disguised as what?"

Well- I- You see-" John stuttered, frowning as he searched for a valid answer. "You're treated differently when you're wearing a uniform, especially if you're an officer. It gets old after a while, so when you can, you dress casual."

"Your truck has a military identification number on it, though."

"This is for the train."

"Oh." Lt. Barnes sighed in relief when they ceased pestering him with questions, and all three glanced out through the rolled down windows at the water below as they crossed over from the mainland into Manhattan by way of the Brooklyn Bridge. Up ahead on the New York skyline was the skeletal structure of the half-constructed Empire State Building, and- glistening bright as new metal does in the afternoon summer sun- the Chrysler Building stood completed nearby, the tallest in the city so far. It pierced the sky with it's pointed top, reaching into the heavens as testament to America's endurance even in times of calamity. 

"Wow..." 

"No kidding," Bucky breathed. Lt. Barnes made a special detour so that they could drive right past the monumental feat of architecture on the way to Grand Central, and after parking the truck they dragged their luggage into the elegant station. John secured their tickets, and they headed for their train; once on board they were directed toward some empty seats. Their baggage had been loaded onto a different car so that it could transfer trains much more easily, and as they pushed off from the platform Bucky remarked: "Jersey" And wrinkled his nose in distaste. 

"It's just another state, son."

"No, it's not," Steve interjected. "It's _Jersey._ "

"This is some sort of New York/New Jersey upbringing blood feud, isn't it?"

"Yep." 

"Things were different where I grew up," John said with a shake of his head.

"You were sheltered," Bucky replied matter-of-factly. His father just shook his head in exasperation, not willing to start up an argument. "Right, Steve?" The Barnes glanced around to find him nowhere in sight. "Uh, Steve?"

"Hey, Buck! You gotta see this! C'mere!" Shrugging, Bucky got up and followed the sound of his friend's voice to the back of the car, where he almost had a panic attack.

" _What are you doing!?_ "

"Getting a better view," Steve said neutrally as he stood on the platform connecting their car to the one immediately behind. He was hastily scratching the flying scenery down on a piece of scrap paper. "It's safe enough, honest. Look. Guard rail and everything." Bucky cautiously edged his way out of the car to stand next to Rogers; the first jolt came by and he was clinging to the protective railing. 

"It's okay," Steve laughed softly. 

"How are you not terrified of this?"

"The speed doesn't bother me. And if the platform was in danger of breaking away from the car they wouldn't have attached it in the first place-"

"You sure of that?

"Will it make you feel better if I say yes?"

"Yes."

"Then yes." Bucky narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in reproach, but gritted his teeth and forced himself to look at the countryside whiz by. 

"Oh, wow."

"I told you." 

"I guess Jersey has _some_ redeeming qualities... If seen in passing, anyway." 

"Traitor," Steve muttered good-naturedly. 

They passed out of New Jersey by five that evening, and transferred trains just within Pennsylvania's border. They were going up into the Appalachians now, and sprawling woodland rose and fell with the extreme terrain. Two eleven year old faces were pressed against the window of their compartment, blue eyes wide with wonder as the valleys disappeared into the gathering mist. A cart came by after six and they purchased dinner; when they were finished it was around seven. Steve and Bucky quickly discovered the reason why Lt. Barnes hated trains: it was incredibly boring most of the time. Eleven o'clock came and they transferred trains again, but it was as much like the last two that they hardly noticed the difference. The sweeping landscape outside had long since ceased to hold any particular interest to them, so when John began softly humming a faintly familiar tune they started to nod off almost immediately.

_All aboard for dreamland_

_Jump on a trolley with Maudie or Mollie_

_And all aboard for dreamland..._

It was decidedly the most ironic song that had ever been sung in their short lives, but its sinister purpose in lulling them to sleep did its potent and quick work. It was well after seven the next morning that Steve awakened, blinking drowsily in the morning sunlight. Directly across from him slept Lt. Barnes, and-

"Ouch!" He gasped as Bucky rammed his elbow into his ribs. Kicking his friend's foot with admittedly over-excessive force he growled,

"Wake up already, why don't you?"

"Whuh...?"

"Where are we?" Steve asked, pointing out the window. The mountainous regions had leveled out into endless fields of corn, wheat, barley, and so on. They were in farm country. Rubbing his eyes and yawning profusely, Bucky turned to look. Almost immediately his demeanor brightened.

"We're near Indianapolis, probably. The train stops there... I think. All I know is dad said we'd be met by my cousins and taken to Shelbyville since there isn't a station there." 

"That's a lot of farmland."

"I know," the brunet replied with a grin. "Shelbyville's a small town, nothing like Brooklyn is. You could probably fit fifty of 'em in back home."

"More like a hundred and fifty," John interjected, grunting as he stretched stiff muscles. Glancing out the window he added to himself, "At least I didn't have to drive a full day this time..."

"What's that, sir?"

"Never mind, James. I'm just sore from sleeping on the train is all." 

"Why? It was fine, I thought."

"You'll understand when you're older," came the timeless reply. 


	11. Gone Fishing

Steve rolled over, only half awake, and immediately free fell from the bed onto the floor with a thump.

"Hmm?" Bucky mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Steve? What're you doin' down there?" 

"Ugh," he muttered, passing his fingers through his golden hair. It still fell into his eyes despite this adjustment, but at least it was better than before. Muffled rays of sunlight were peeking in through the drawn curtains, casting the room they were sharing in a soft yellow glow. Glancing over at the clock resting on the table situated between the two beds, he saw that it was seven o'clock and decided to get dressed.

"Steve?"

"...hmmm? Oh. Rolled over and fell onto the floor."

"Typical," Bucky snorted, throwing back the covers with a wide yawn and dramatic stretch. "We're going fishing today, y'know." 

"Great. There's always a first for everything, I s'pose."

"Yeah... I probably should've taught you how to swim first, though." Steve gave Bucky an exasperated look.

"No really?" 

"Shut up," the brunet growled, tossing a shirt at his friend. "Anyway, aside from fishing, what are we going to do with the ten days we have left? We've already explored every inch of the nearby fields."

"We could get lost in the woods," Steve suggested, pulling the shirt off and then over his head. 

"That's an idea," Bucky commented, pulling on a clean pair of trousers. "Hey, where'd my suspenders go?"

"They're... On the windowsill?"

"Why would they be there?" 

"They're _your_ suspenders. Where're my socks?"

"Underneath your blanket." 

"Oh." 

"Anyway," Bucky continued, "there's loads to do in the woods. Tree climbing, creek swimming, adventuring, exploring..."

"Sounds great," Steve remarked drily, bringing his friend out of his reveries. 

"It is, Mr. Stormcloud personality."

"I just know we're going to get lost is all."

"Hey, Jimmy! You guys comin'?"

"Coming, Tristan!" Bucky called back, making a face. "I hate that name," he muttered under his breath. 

"Cousins," Steve stated sympathetically. They made their way down the stairs to join the others in the kitchen; Tristan and Johnny were scarfing down eggs and toast while Lt. Barnes knawed on a sausage, reading the morning paper. He was in military dress, which indicated that he was reporting in to the training base nearby on the border with Ohio. 

"Hello, boys. Where are you off to so early?"

"The creek," Steve promptly answered, tucking into a bowl of oatmeal. 

"We're goin' fishin' soon as breakfast is over," Bucky added, chomping with vigor on a piece of bacon. His peppy mood turned sour as Johnny started snickering. "What, may I ask, is so funny?"

"Oh, nothing," Tristan replied with a chuckle. " _Right_ , Johnny?"

"Yeah, of course. Just one question: who's going to teach your friend if we're out in the fields working today?"

"I will." This produced even more laughter. "What?"

"You? _You're_ going to teach him?" 

"And what's wrong with that?" Barnes asked hotly, insulted.

"You don't know the first thing about proper fishing," Johnny explained. "We taught you all wrong on purpose last time. Miracle you caught anything at all."

"Well, I'm sure we'll have fun anyway," Steve cut in, smiling amiably at Bucky's cousins while at the same time applying a great deal of pressure to his friend's shoulders, an attempt at preventing him from springing at the far older pair. "Right, Buck?"

"Right," Bucky echoed, face red with anger as he quickly shoved a piece of toast into his mouth, grabbed a few sausages, and swept out of the room. Steve shrugged his shoulders and gave the two cousins a warning look before doing the same. He found the brunet on the porch outside, furiously assembling two fishing poles. Without looking up he asked, 

"Ready to prove 'em wrong?"

"You bet," Rogers said, picking up a bucket and the can of worms they'd collected very late the night before. Looking down into it he commented, "Ya know, I can't believe these things are still alive."

"The trick is to give 'em some dirt or rotting fruit," Barnes explained as they headed down a weathered track, pushing through the weeds here and there as they headed for a well-known fishing spot along one of the wider and deeper rivers. It was there that they strung out a clothing line between two trees, making sure to give it plenty of slack, before settling down on some sun-warmed rocks near the water's edge. Bucky explained that his cousins had had him dump the can of worms into the water and then wait to pelt the incoming fish with a well-aimed rock, but added that they had used fishing poles and was determined to use one just as well as they had. 

"Problem is, I can't figure out how to make it work," he confessed. "The line won't let out so I can throw it."

"It's called casting," Steve corrected. "Here. Let me show you." He proceeded to unlock the fishing line after spearing a worm onto the hook, and- moving a safe distance away from Bucky- he gave the pole a practiced flick that sent the bait whizzing far out into the middle of the mostly calm water. 

"How'd you do that??" Bucky asked, fascinated. 

"That uncle of mine you met about... Ooh, seven years ago?"

"Your Uncle... William, yeah?"

"He took me fishing on one of the occasions he came over on a business trip. Said every boy had to know how to catch a fish."

"Teach me." It was spoken in the rare begging voice, usually employed in a losing argument with Sarah Rogers, and just too good an opportunity to pass it by.

"No."

"Pretty please?" Sarcastic, but authentic all the same.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Steve asked smugly. 

"Huh," Bucky snorted. "You're a punk, you know that?"

"So I've been told on multiple occasions." 

Once Steve showed Bucky how to properly cast and bait his fishing hook, things fell into a naturally relaxing rhythm. Every once in a while there'd be a pull on one of their lines, and the owner would scramble to get their catch in before it fought its way loose; the clothes line was soon proudly displaying several fish tied by their tails by late that afternoon. While they waited they read- Steve had gotten into _Swiss Family Robinson_ , and Bucky was enjoying _Treasure Island-_ under the dappled shade of an old willow tree. It was one of those lazy days when the world seemed to pass you by, and time had come to a standstill. Everything about that spot of the river was tranquil. The birds twittered quietly in the branches, and the water chattered methodically as it rippled over the stone bed below it.

The sun was beginning to set and the sky to turn rusty in color when they decided to call it a day. The clothes line was laden with their haul, and one by one the fish were piled until the large bucket was brimming. 

"You carry the fishing poles and the line, and I'll get the bucket," Bucky instructed when they were ready to leave. They had already replaced their books back into their positions in their trouser pockets, where the novels peeked precariously out at the world about them. Steve opened his mouth, ready to argue- ready to say it wasn't too heavy for him and that he could do anything Bucky could- until he took another good, long look at the pail. It seemed to finally dawn on him that the brunet wasn't treating him as if he were weak, but doing him a favor, and he closed his mouth without uttering a sound. They walked in silence over a small cresting hill in the path, and then back onto the main road that led to the farm which Bucky's cousins had inherited from their grandparents. It had taken seven long years for Steve to finally realize that the reality of life was plain and simple with no allowances: Bucky was healthier and stronger than he was, and that was that. He was constantly sick, he was small and frail for his age, and yet... 

Steve smiled to himself when he heard Bucky trip next to him and utter a curse under his breath- one which neither of their parents would ever have tolerated and thus had been learned in the school yard. And yet, for some reason, the kid walking beside him had chosen his best friend to be a scrap of nothing over what had surely been a limitless selection of healthier candidates. And Steve was just grateful it had worked out that way, if he was being honest with himself. He could still remember life before Bucky Barnes. It had been filled with miserable sick days spent alone or the dusty old neighbor in the apartment next door, overflowing with countless cuts and bruises from being beat up by older boys. Lonely moments when no one would allow him to play stickball because he didn't know how to catch or hit, because no one had taught him how. When the absence of any type of father figure whatsoever had been painfully obvious and degrading, seeing as there were so few boys his age without their dads. And now, not only did he have a friend, but he had a brother for life. 

"Hey, Buck?"

"Hmm?"

"We're gonna be best friends forever, aren't we?" It was more a statement than an actual question. Bucky stopped and turned to face him, that cocky smile spreading wide over his face and lighting it up like a fireworks display, throwing his right arm over Steve's shoulder like he always did.

"You're stuck with me kid, and that's that."

"Ditto." 

"Now let's haul these fish back and see the look on Johnny and Tristan's faces, huh?"

"I'm right behind you." _Where I'll always be..._

They were intercepted several times by admiring townsfolk, who scrounged about in their pockets to find some dimes; the fish were large and pretty, and fetched an equally handsome price of 10¢ each. They were halfway home when yet another old, beat-up truck came rumbling down the road and slowed as it neared them.

"Steven. James. Want a ride?"

"Yessir!" Lt. Barnes waited until they were in the flatbed before speeding up again.

"It looks like you caught a good deal," he commented.

"We sold about half before you met us," Bucky said proudly. "Got 10¢ each." Although John didn't show it, the boys could tell he was impressed. 

"And plenty left over for dinner," Steve added, almost as an afterthought. He wasn't really paying attention to the conversation, as he was taking in his surroundings with a very attentive eye. The old Ford rattled its way down the drive of Sehrs Farm, stopping in the yard with a lurch. Tristan and Johnny were sitting on the front porch as if they had been waiting for them to arrive. Spotting their cousin, Johnny asked,

"So how many minnows you catch today, Jimmy?"

"It's James. Haven't got any minnows, but how 'bout a bucket of Bass?" 

"Half a bucket, anyway. Sold the rest on the way back here," Steve added as he carried the fishing poles toward the tool shed. 

"But how'd you catch so many?" Tristan asked, incredulous.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Bucky said smugly as he hauled the bucket over to the porch. "Hey, Steve!"

"Yeah?"

"While you're in the shed, look for the cleaning tools, woudja?"

"Sure thing." The blond came back a few minutes later with the necessary equipment, and grimacing he settled down on the steps and began to help Bucky gut and clean the fish. Lt. Barnes gathered some logs from the woodpile and created a fire; the cleaned fish were wrapped in foil and placed in the coals when they were hot enough.

"Ever had fish like this before, Stevie?" Johnny asked.

"It's Steve. No, can't say I have." 

"His mum doesn't buy fish all that often," Bucky chipped in.

"Why do you call her mum? This is America, not England, ya'know," Tristan corrected.

"My family's Irish," Steve explained. "I grew up hearing my mum use that word to describe my grandma. I use it because it's different."

"But why do you use it then?" Johnny asked, looking at his cousin. 

"Because it wouldn't feel right to call 'er "mama," that's why. I don't think I could bring myself to use it when addressing her..." He trailed off. 

"I feel the same way about you, sir," Steve remarked to Lt. Barnes. 

"Oh, enough with this mushy stuff already," Johnny growled, carefully pulling another foiled-wrapped fish out of the fire. "I wanna know how you got all these fish in a single afternoon." 

"It was a good day, plain and simple," Bucky retorted. "And we're just naturally skilled." He couldn't see Steve's face, because the blond was snickering into his elbow. 


	12. Two's Company, Six is Trouble...

"So tell me again what Harvest is like," Steve said as they lounged underneath a Beech tree in the back yard of Sehrs Farm. 

"It's busy," Bucky began, thoughtfully chewing on his bottom lip as he tried to remember. It had been a long time since he'd been around in the Fall. "Everyone's in the fields and orchards, getting in the produce. It's kind of a big festival for Shelbyville, really- it being such a small town and all. Ever had fresh apple cider before?"

"No. I'd like to, though. It sounds great."

"Mmmm... It's sweet, but not too tart- usually. We've been here for a week now, and you haven't really seen the town," he added, standing up. "C'mon."

"Fine by me," Steve agreed, scurrying after his friend toward the barn. Tristan and Johnny's old bikes were leaning against one of the walls, and the blond approached them cautiously. "Um... Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember when I said I haven't ever ridden a bike before?"

"... Oh."

"Yeah."

"Would you like to learn?"

"What, now?" 

"Sure," Bucky said enthusiastically, completely ignoring Steve's skeptical glance as he rolled the bikes around a pile of hay. "I'll teach you on the way into town. There's a long stretch of flat open road between here and there."

"If I die it'll be your fault," the blonde warned, cautiously scrambling onto the seat. "I think it's too tall." His feet dangled a few inches away from the pedals. 

"Yeah, just a second," Barnes murmured as he lowered it, almost sending Steve through the roof in shock as he abruptly dropped downward. "That better?"

"Buck...! Give a guy some warning next time, huh?"

"Please," the brunet scoffed, swinging onto the second bike. "Like there'll _be_ a next time. Now, the trick is to get enough forward momentum to keep your balance. We'll work on turning and braking when we have to. Ready?"

"No."

"Great. Let's go!" He took off, pedaling furiously. Steve moved his toes from barely skimming the ground to the pedals, and- muttering profanities his mother would have washed out of his mouth with soap under his breath- wobblingly raced to catch up. They came to the main road, which necessitated a turn. 

"Lean away from the curve!" Bucky shouted, rich brown locks whipping into his face as he looked away from the wind. 

"Uh... Okay, sure!" Steve, who was having enough trouble keeping his balance _without_ having to round a bend, gritted his teeth and correctly predicted that he'd wipe out. Gravel dug into his bare knees and sprayed over his arms and legs as the bike crashed into the dirt road, and he was saved from being crushed by the apparatus by leaping away at the first chance he got. There was a screech of tires and Bucky skidded to a halt, a cloud of dust materializing around him as he spun around to see what had happened. 

"Stevie?"

"I'm fine, Buck." Steve sat up, spitting mud out of his mouth as he tipped the bicycle up again, resolutely clambering back on. 

"You sure?"

"When am I ever _not_ fine?" Bucky smiled as they proceeded more cautiously down the road, but the gesture was bittersweet. It was true; Rogers was always 'fine.' Broken arm? 'Fine.' Flu? 'Fine' again. Asthma attack? 'Definitely fine, okay? You don't have to worry!' 

"If 'fine' means the exact opposite for you than it does for everyone else, sure." 

"Oh, shut up."

"Never. I think you need someone around to tell you when it's okay to be less than 'fine,' kid. You worry me sometimes."

"Why? I can take care of myself," Steve said defensively as he executed a turn. It wasn't graceful, but he was quickly learning how _not_ to crash a bicycle. 

"I never said you couldn't," Bucky replied carefully. "I'm just saying that everyone needs a little help now and then, okay?"

"Buck, you don't know how it is for someone like me," Steve sighed. "You have to be harder than everyone else, because they won't let you go anywhere if you act like them. People like me... If we asked for help like others do, you'd never hear us _not_ asking. You understand that better than most, so I don't expect you to see me like a normal person would. Take your cousins, for example." The blond left the sentence at that, indicating he wanted Barnes to figure it out for himself or else his point would be moot. 

"They don't... They think you're helpless," he admitted, more to himself than to Steve, who nodded in affirmation. "They'd probably be scared out of their wits if they saw us on bikes right now, headed all the way into town." He expected an answer, waited for it. But the only sound was that of a light, raspy, and continual wheeze. Bucky kept his focus trained on that noise as they pedaled down the road. If it got too erratic, they'd have to stop so Steve wouldn't have an asthma attack. The rattling breath remained steady though, and they reached the outskirting buildings without any difficulty. 

"That house there, the one with the bright red shutters. I used to live there." 

"I don't see any rose bushes," Rogers commented mischievously. 

"And you won't, either." Bucky continued pointing out some buildings, the ones he remembered from the brief four years of his life before moving to Brooklyn. They eventually skidded to a halt beside an aged brick church and leaned their transport against the rouge façade. Steve was panting for all he was worth as they walked across the street, waiting for Bucky to get his bearings. 

"To tell you the truth kid, I didn't come into the main town all that often. But it hasn't changed hardly at all... Wait here for a second. I wanna check something out." It was Barnes' nice way of saying 'stay here and get some air before you pass out, you blond idiot.' The brunet scampered off around a building corner, and Steve leaned against a wooden wall caked with peeling blue paint, taking in huge gulps of a summer breeze that smelled vaguely of tomatoes. Bucky hadn't come back for a bit, and he began to worry; setting off at a light trot he headed in the general direction of his friend, and instead ran into four boys around his age, possibly a year or so older. They seemed just as surprised of seeing him as he was of seeing them, and for a few moments they all simply stood there staring at each other.

"Who're you?" One of the boys finally asked; Steve found himself surrounded almost instantaneously. Being used to this with bullies on the streets of Brooklyn, he squared his scrawny shoulders and lifted his head, his eyes calm and mildly curious until an actual threat surfaced. "You one of Bobby's boys? We don't like his kind here."

"Who's Bobby?"

"We don't want any funny business," the fire-haired one snapped.

"What funny business? I'm just visiting from Brooklyn."

"New York? What's it like?" He was the only one of them with dark skin.

"It's big, noisy, and chock-full of gangs," Steve said with a mischievous smile dancing in his eyes if not on his mouth. 

"Like Chicago? You got your own Al Capone?"

"Al Capone _grew up_ in Brooklyn! He was with the _Brooklyn Rippers_ and the _Forty Thieves Juniors._ Even got his name 'Scarface' from a wound he received while living in Red Hook!"

"Wow," said the fourth boy. He was the only one out of the group who hadn't spoken yet. "You're sayin' Capone got his start in New York, huh? Well, that's the bee's knees and no mistake!"

"I've never understood that saying," Steve muttered. "Who are you guys, anyway?"

"We call ourselves _The Sentinels_ , but if ya mean our names, I'm Geoffrey Worthington Vandergill. The redhead over there is Patrick O'Toole, that big palooka is Henry Yosef Tinklebaum, and this is Washington Carver Jones."

"I'm Steven Grant Rogers, if we're being formal," Rogers stated sarcastically. 

"Geoff never uses one word where three will do," O'Toole laughed. "Call me Pat."

"And I'm Wash," the dark-skinned boy added. That left the somewhat rotund Tinklebaum.

"Henry's fine for me."

"Steve? I wondered where you'd got off to," Bucky said, appearing as if out of thin air. He took in the situation and shoved his way through the other boys, defensively coming to stand beside the blond. "Who're these guys?" 

"What, you missed the whole introduction?" Steve asked with raised eyebrow. Barnes rolled his eyes. "This is my friend, James Barnes."

"Can we call ya Jimmy?" Pat inquired. 

"Absolutely not," Bucky growled. He was relaxing though, and became more good-natured. "If you simply _must_ find a nickname for me, my middle name's Buchanan. Stevie here calls me Bucky."

"I like it," Wash commented, leaning against a nearby window. "You from New York too?"

"Yeah. Used to live here, though. We're visitin' my cousins. They're up at Sehrs Farm."

"Your cousins are Tristan and Johnny Sehrs?" Geoff exclaimed. " _That_ must be annoying."

"Beyond belief," Steve and Bucky said simultaneously. 

"How long're you staying here?" Henry asked. 

"About a week," Barnes replied. "We were planning on getting lost in the woods. I promised I'd teach Steve how to swim before we left, though." 

"Well, you're in luck," Wash said. "We know every inch of those trees, and all the best swimming spots. We can show you."

"Sweet!" Steve commented enthusiastically. Turning to Bucky he asked, "Whaddaya think?"

"Sounds good."

"We can go right now if you want," Geoff added. "Got nothing to do for the rest of the day."

"He's avoiding his grandmother," Pat snickered.

"Am not!"

"Am too!"

"Who cares?" Henry muttered, and began to walk away. Wash cast a glance at Steve and Bucky, and they joined Tinklebaum.

"Hey, wait up!" O'Toole called. He and Geoff sprinted to catch up when the other four were a fair distance away. They all walked down the road headed out of town, and then veered off into a field of long grass. At the other end the trees thickened noticeably, and they disappeared underneath the thick green canopy. 

"I've never seen so many trees grouped together in my life," Steve breathed as he followed Bucky up a tree trunk. Their climbing skills already impressive from vaulting up and down the fire escapes of the apartment buildings, it was a small matter to adapt this talent into gripping the wide branches and slender, bending boughs of the maples, beeches, and oaks. 

"I know what ya mean, pal!" Bucky said, looking down as he clambered higher onto a stronger perch. "I'd watch out with that branch, by the way. I think it's dead."

"Well, move over then, wouldja?" Steve barked the words, making a tremendous leap as the deadwood snapped underneath his weight. The pair gripped the bough tight as it bobbed up and down, finally settling back into a still position. 

"Coming through!" Pat shouted, transferring from one tree into theirs on his way to another.

"This is our tree! Get your own!" Bucky challenged playfully as Pat shimmied along their branch, making it sway again.

"One side!" Geoff called, sliding down the trunk to land beside them. Wash grabbed the branch in his hands, and it started to bend under the weight of five twelve year old boys. 

"Guys! Get off! It's gonna snap!" Steve warned. There was a resounding crack when Henry leaped into the middle of their knotted arms and legs, and they all fell in a tangle of limbs into a creek.

"See? We know what we're doing," Pat said smugly, squirting water out of his mouth and into Geoff's face. The startling sound of thrashing made them turn around, and they discovered Bucky pulling Steve onto the bank. 

"Are you nuts?" He growled, rubbing the asthmatic's back to help stimulate his breathing. "He doesn't know how to swim yet! I was gonna teach him!"

"Oh. Sorry." Geoff looked authentically sincere. 

"Well, I should hope so! He could've drowned!"

"Buck, seriously, I'm fine-"

"Shut up. There was no way that wasn't dangerous."

"Relax, kid," Henry said, treading water. "You need to unwind a little." 

"A little?" Steve muttered, raising his eyebrows at the brunet, who caught the look and stood down. 

"Yeah... I guess. Fine," Bucky sighed, sliding off the wet grass and into the creek. He was about to tell Steve to ease in slowly when a gigantic splash rolled over his head. Coming up for air and spluttering, he blinked to clear his eyes and found the small blond kicking for all he was worth. "Use your arms!" 

"Gotcha!" Steve's head went under the water for a bit before popping up again, and he steadied out his tread. "See?" He said, looking triumphantly at Bucky. "I can swim!" 

"Uh huh?" Bucky gulped. He hoped he looked a lot calmer than he felt. Inside, he was having about ten simultaneous panic attacks: he'd never been so afraid of someone drowning as he had been just then. "Yeah, you're doing alright."

"Really? I thought- ugh! Plah! Plah!" He spat as a wave rolled into his mouth. 

"James? Steven?" All six boys looked up to see Lt. Barnes walking carefully along the bank. 

"Yes, sir?"

"I thought I'd find you here. Well, come on. I've already found and put the bikes in the back. You'll have to wedge yourselves in."

"Oh, do we have to?" Steve asked. "I just learned how to swim!"

"I saw," John said, smiling. "But we're having an early dinner, and you two need to get cleaned up."

"Why?" Bucky asked, fending off a jet of water from Wash with his hand. "Where're we going?"

"It's a surprise. Now do you want to know what it is or don't you?" And with that he walked back up the hill.

"Hey, wait for us! We're coming!" They dragged themselves onto the bank and, dripping wet, went running after him, leaping into the back of the truck and landing squarely on the bikes. "Ow!" 

"Bye, guys! Steve called as Bucky curled into a ball, clutching his knees and moaning. "We'll see you tomorrow!"

"Bye!" 


	13. Ghosts of the Past

Their hair was drying haphazardly against their scalps as the battered truck rumbled into the front yard of Sehrs Farm, and their clothing stuck to their bodies. Shoes squishing as the water-rich socks within protested climbing the porch steps, Steve and Bucky were instructed to dry off and change immediately before they permanently damaged the wood floor or wool rugs. Back in the room they were sharing, Bucky tossed a towel over his hair while Steve peeled off his wet clothes. 

"Where do you think he's taking us?" Barnes asked.

"Who knows?" Rogers replied, wiggling out of his pants and pulling on a fresh pair. "Last time he did something like this, it was a _lot_ less of a big deal than it actually was."

"My thoughts exactly." Brush, brush, went a comb through rich brown hair before being tossed into a new set of hands and run through a mess of dripping and tangled golden locks. 

"Do you think it'll be better than last time? It was kind of..."

"Disappointing?" Bucky finished, buttoning on a fresh shirt. "Well, let's be honest. How exciting can an oyster boat be? I know he gets overexcited sometimes, but..."

"That _was_ a little overkill, even for him."

"James? Steven?"

"Coming!" 

"You'd better look presentable, and I mean it!"

"Yessir!" Steve answered, turning to give Bucky a raised eyebrow and quizzical smile.

"Well, we'd better go before he comes in after us and sees what a mess we've made of this room."

"I hear ya talkin'." They scurried out into the hall and bolted into the kitchen, diving into their chairs around the table. Lt. Barnes looked up from a document he'd been reading and gave them an approving smile. Tristan and Johnny were nowhere to be seen. They ate quickly, rinsing the dishes in warm, soapy water and covering the things left for Bucky's cousins when they finally came in, and the trio got into the truck. 

" _Now_ will you tell us where we're going?" Steve asked, impatiently fidgeting in the bed of the truck. 

"Not yet."

"Aw, c'mon, dad!" Bucky begged.

"No can do. It's classified intelligence." John smiled when he looked back through his mirror and saw the two boys rolling their eyes. They were driving away from Shelbyville, IN; at any rate, there was at _least_ some inkling of the direction they were going. 

"Is this a joke?" Steve asked when they finally reached their destination. He and Bucky were staring with wide blue eyes as they were admitted through the gate and passed into one of the United States' many military bases. 

"Of course not. We're here because I thought you'd like to see a general version of where I work every day."

"Wow." They hesitantly got out of the truck and followed on John's heels as he led them toward the main command office, but they never got there.

"Lt. Barnes?"

"Sir!" He acknowledged, wheeling about a complete 180° and falling into salute, nearly tripping over the two twelve year olds, who scattered in panic. They peered out from behind his back as a full Colonel approached. "I was just on my way to your office, Colonel Matheson."

"Mighty glad I saved you the trouble," Matheson replied congenially. "At ease, before you sprain something." 

"Yes sir." As his taut body loosened, he nudged the boys. They reluctantly came to stand on either side of him, squaring their shoulders to avoid slouching. 

"Are these your children?" Matheson asked with interest, smiling warmly at Bucky. But when he saw Steve, it was almost as if he became fixated on him, and inwardly the blond was squirming with embarrassment. 

"James Barnes," John said, resting his left hand on his son's head and his right on Rogers'. "Steven Rogers." 

"My, my," Matheson murmured, passing a hand through his thick bright red- and slightly graying- hair. "You're the spitting image of your father, Mr. Rogers."

"Really, sir?" Steve asked. Bucky silently noted the underlying tone of desperation. He wanted so badly for it to be true. 

"Of course. Not in the shade of blue of your eyes or the color of your hair, no siree, but in the way you hold yourself. You've got the same jawline, too, come to think of it."

"You- you knew my father?"

"He saved my life, son." Matheson stared down at Steve, whose eyes were wide. He hardly ever heard anything about Corporal Joseph Rogers. His mother didn't like to mention him. It just hurt her too much, and so after a while he had quit asking. "I'd lost my gas mask, and he strapped his own over my head. Think he could smell the chlorine or something, because it wasn't twenty seconds later that we got hit by mustard gas. He died making sure I'd live to see my newborn daughter." Pulling out a slightly yellowed but well-preserved photograph, he pointed to one of five figures. Even with the black and white coloring, it was easy to spot Matheson by the bushy eyebrows and thick shock of unusually bright hair. "See him, there? The one with the black hair and sharp gray eyes. That's your father." Bucky peered over Steve's shoulder at the photograph and felt he would have recognized Corporal Rogers by his facial features alone, they bore such a strong resemblance to Steve's. "I was just a wet-behind-the-ears Private back then. It seems worlds away now- we were all so young... Your father was only twenty-two. Me? I was nineteen." 

"Ahem," Lt. Barnes meaningfully cleared his throat. "Begging your pardon, Colonel, but we only have so much time for me to show them around the base before we have to get back home..."

"Yes, yes, of course- would it be terribly intrusive of me to accompany you?"

"Not at all. Of course not, sir." They set off on a general tour of the base, with John explaining about what a certain building was when questioned. 

"What was my father like?" Steve asked Matheson quietly, almost as if he were embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. 

"Your mother doesn't talk about him much, I gather."

"No, sir." 

"Well... He was stubborn as a mule, but- boy, was he loyal to the men serving with him..."

"This was the _real_ reason you brought us here, wasn't it?" Bucky murmured to his father, who smiled.

"Of course, James. A boy deserves to know about his parents, especially if they're no longer alive."

"Is that why you talk about- about mama when something reminds you of her?"

"Yes, son."

The sun was setting when they left, and- amazingly- they'd managed to see everything of importance within the two hours they'd been there. 

"Goodbye, sir." Lt. Barnes gave a formal salute before ushering them out; Bucky wanted to go properly exploring, and Steve wanted to take a look at the training courses again, and so they needed the incentive.

"Lt. Barnes," Matheson said, nodding in acknowledgement. "James." Taking the old photograph out of his pocket he said, "Steven, I'd like you to have this."

"Sir, I can't-"

"Yes, you can. This is a copy, anyway. I've got one on my desk."

"... Thank you, sir."

"You're very welcome." They hopped into the old truck and rattled down the road. 

"You're going to sketch everything down, right?" Bucky whispered.

"Of course," Steve replied. He was already rummaging in his pocket for a pencil and paper. When they reached Sehr's Farm they leaped out of the truck and raced each other- as usual, Bucky won- to the room they shared. Papers soon littered the floor, some covered in crude representations and many, many others filled with sophisticated maps of detailed design. 

"Where was the mess?"

"Over there a ways, nearer to recreation than to the motor pool," Bucky answered as Steve drew it in. Barnes had given up early on in his attempts at recreating what he had seen on paper. 

"You know Buck, you'd probably be great at writing," Rogers commented offhandedly, shading in a building. 

"Maybe I would," Bucky murmured thoughtfully. "I'd drop dead of shock if you could write _anything_ well. You know that, right?"

"Ditto for me and your drawing skills," Steve retorted.

"That was just mean."

"So was yours."

"Truce?"

"Truce." 

"All right you two, I see that light. Time for bed!"

"Aw.... Why?"

"Because Steven's mother would skin me alive if she ever found out that I let you stay up any later, that's why!"

"He's got a point," Steve muttered, unceremoniously heaving himself up off of the floor and padding toward the bathroom on dust-caked bare feet. "I hope your cousins didn't hide our toothbrushes again."

"If they did, we're well within our rights to take the scissors to their hair one night. We've been thoroughly provoked. And quite honestly, I think they _want_ to see what we've got in the realm of pranking."

"They have no idea of what they're getting themselves into," Steve agreed with a shake of his head. He swapped a knowing smile with Bucky, who had followed him right on his heels. "Oh, that is _it!_ _This_ means _war_."

"Why? What? Move!" Steve moved aside so that Bucky could see the bathroom. "Oh, _no way_..." Shaving cream covered the floor like a sea of whipped marshmallow topping that had exploded out of the sink. "You've _got_ to be kidding." The brunet took a flying leap and landed in the bathtub, leaning far over to reach their toothbrushes. Tossing Steve's to him he growled, "We're going to win this thing if it's the last thing we do."

"What exactly did you have in mind?"

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Steve had been lying awake for better over an hour, staring at the ceiling. He started, surprised, when he heard Bucky sigh. He'd thought Barnes had fallen asleep a long while ago.

"Bucky, you awake?" He whispered to the darkness.

"As awake as you, apparently," the brunet replied softly. 

"Do you remember your mama?"

"Sometimes. Not often anymore. All I've got is... Blurry images of her smiling, or faint echoes when she used to sing. Why?"

"I don't remember anything about my dad, but... Sometimes I think I remember the sound of his voice, but it sounds as if he's calling from far away. I don't really miss him. It feels more like I miss him in the sense that he was never really there."

"I miss my mama too. A lot, sometimes, like when it's her birthday or something. I remember her best when dad plays piano." There was a long period of silence, and Bucky began to think Steve had dropped off to sleep.

"... At least we've got each other."

"... Yeah... We'll always have each others' backs, right?"

"Yeah."


	14. Caretaker

It was the last morning before they were headed back for Brooklyn, and the night before Steve and Bucky had been up much of the time exacting their revenge against his cousins. And so it was that a pair of white underwear tied to a stick preceded Tristan and Johnny into the kitchen; their hair was cropped extremely short and irregularly all over, and the words "idiot" and "he's the smart one" were inked onto their foreheads respectively. 

"We surrender," Tristan croaked, his voice hoarse after they'd dumped sand in his mouth while he had it open and snoring. Johnny was trying to scratch every inch of his body, clearing reacting badly to the itching powder.

"What happened to you two?" John asked, finally looking up from his newspaper to see his nephews for the first time that morning. He then turned his gaze upon Bucky and Steve, who were quietly eating their breakfast with the best impressions of angelic cherubs ever attempted. "Boys..."

"Hmm?"

"What?"

"Did you- oh, never mind," Lt. Barnes muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose; a sign that he was fighting off an oncoming headache. "Just be ready to leave by nine o'clock." 

"Yessir." They finished their breakfast and scampered back into the room they had been sharing, making one last effort to leave it as tidy as possible. Their luggage was already sitting by the front door. 

"It's only seven fifteen," Steve said, looking at his watch. "That leaves enough time to go into town for about an hour and a half, right?"

"Let's see... It takes about ten minutes each way, so subtract thirty five minutes from one hundred and twenty to account for time. Eighty five minutes, then. An hour and twenty five minutes."

"Eh, I was close without math."

"True enough." They rolled the bikes out of the barn and pedaled down the road, leaning them against the drug store upon arrival and sauntering into the park. A solitary fountain still bravely spewed forth water into its dusty basin in the center, and that's where they found the 'Sentinels' lounging about without a care in the world. 

"What're you doing?" Bucky asked.

"Nothin," Wash replied. He and Geoff winced as Pat fell into the fountain, and a groaning Henry began pulling him out. "What're _you_ doin'?"

"We're headed for home at nine," Steve answered, dodging to avoid the spray of water from Pat's thrashing. 

"Oh, that's just great!" Wash growled. "My older brother was going to take us to the next town over!"

"You mean the bigger one twenty minutes down the road by bike?" Bucky said sarcastically. 

"Wel- Yeah, I guess so, now you put it _that_ way..."

"Hey, Wash?"

"Yes, Steve?"

"Does your brother by any chance happen to be around fifteen years old and drive a beat up Model T?"

"Uh, yeah. That's Gabe alright."

"Lucky you. We'll say goodbye now then, so you can get going," Bucky said, placing his arm on Steve's head- as it was conveniently an appropriate height- while the blond scowled. Brushing him off and fixing his hair Rogers added,

"Have fun! I'll probably be listening to this oaf snore the train ride back."

"I don't snore!"

"Do too."

"Don't."

"Do."

"Who cares?" Pat snapped irritably, shaking the water out of his hair and attempting to wring it out of his clothes. "I just hope this isn't the last time we'll ever see each other."

"Me too, pal. Me too," Bucky sighed, ignoring his discomfort at the spray of water now coating his shirt. 

"Hey, Wash! You guys getting in the truck, or what?"

"Coming, Gabe!" Turning back to the two Brooklynites he said, "Nice meeting you, even more fun almost drowning you."

"Wish I could say the same," Steve replied with a chuckle. He and Bucky stayed standing by the fountain as the old Model T rumbled away with 'The Sentinels' as its cargo, and when it was out of sight they returned by bike to Sehrs Farm. 

"Oh good," Lt. Barnes said as they got back. He was loading their luggage into the back of the truck. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to leave you here."

"You'd never," Bucky retorted, pretending to be mortified; the wide smile showed the little effort he put into the act. 

"I have to be back at base by the morning after tomorrow, you know that," John replied, the door slamming shut behind Tristan as he sat behind the wheel. John went to sit in the passenger seat. "So are you coming or not?"

"Yeah- just a second, alright?" Steve huffed. "I need to catch my breath." It was a legitimate excuse. He breathlessly clambered into the truck bed after Bucky, who reflexively offered a hand before drawing it back almost as quickly, realizing it was neither necessary nor appreciated. "Ready and waiting, sir."

"Alright, Rogers." It came out as a chuckle. "Step on it, Tristan."

"Sure thing, Uncle John." The tires squealed as they backed out of the drive, throwing up dust and bits of gravel. Johnny was standing on the porch, and waved to them before turning to go back into the house. They drove all the way to Indianapolis and boarded the train, spending the next four hours in perpetual, uncomfortable boredom. Then there was the transfer, and by 11:00pm they arrived in Grand Central. The BMT was a harrowing experience to negotiate with the suitcases but manageable, and shortly after the door to the Rogers' apartment was creaking open.

"Mum, we're back!"

"You'll be glad to know we're all still in one piece!" Bucky added to Steve's greeting call. 

"I never doubted for a second," Sarah said, crouching down to hug her boys. "Oh, look at you, James! You must have grown at least an inch in the two weeks you've been gone."

"Nah," the brunet scoffed, pretending to escape from the peck to his cheek but failing to make it convincing. "My trousers are still the right length."

"Mum! You're suffocating me!"

"Sorry, dear. I missed you _so much!"_

"Oof!" Steve gasped as she hugged tighter, a grimacing grin plastered onto his face. Sarah finally released them, holding each by the shoulder at arm's length to look them both in the eye.

"Before you go in, you need to know what's happened since you were last here. You see our neighbor, Mrs. O'Brien- you remember her, right?"

"Yes," they replied.

"She's very ill and has no one to look after her in the city. She- she's dying. And until then, we're going to make sure she's well cared for, alright? The doctors say it won't be long now."

"But that's so sad," Bucky whispered. Steve nodded his head in agreement.

"Yeah, mum. What's making her so sick?" Sarah looked up at Lt. Barnes as she spoke.

"Pneumonia, dear. John, I would understand completely if you wouldn't want James coming here while O'Brien's-"

"Thank you, Sarah..." Steve and Bucky looked from one parent to the other, not fully comprehending the gravity of the situation but knowing that the illness was fatal. "... But I know you'll have taken every precaution. And- unfortunately- there's simply no other solution to my work schedule at the moment."

"They're willing to give me the week off to care for her since I put in over twelve hours' worth of overtime last week."

"Is that enough?"

"It'll be any day now, to be honest."

"Oh. I- I see. It's so kind of you to do something like this, I have to admit."

"I lost my father to pneumonia. I know that the best one can do is make the... patient as comfortable as possible during the final days."

"Mum?"

"Yes Steven?"

"Why are we still in the hallway?" It was as if the two adults were snapped out of a trance. Rubbing her forehead Sarah replied,

"Sorry, boys. Take um.. Take your things back to your room and begin unpacking, would you?"

"Dad?"

"Do as she says, James." John mumbled, passing his fingers through his hair. "You be good. I'll see you tomorrow night, if we're lucky. Alright?"

"Yeah, all right." The two boys cast curious glances back at them as they went down the hall, finally disappearing into Steve's bedroom. Once the door was closed Bucky flopped down on the bed, sighing in great exaggeration.

"What's the matter?" Rogers asked, sitting on their stacked suitcases. 

"We hardly saw anything of him on holiday, and we won't see anything of him for the foreseeable future," Barnes growled. "I know he's busy, but I kind of miss being able to spend some time with my old man and the occasion not having to be special for it to happen."

"I feel the same way about mum," Steve admitted. "I see more of her than you do your dad, but..."

"She's always so tired nowadays," Bucky finished. 

"Yeah. When do you think this depression will end?"

"Who knows? It might go on forever. We might never recover."

"I hope not."

"Me too, but I'm being realistic here."

"Well stop, all right? _I'm_ supposed to be the pessimistic one." Bucky finally smiled, and turned to face Steve. He was still lying flat on his back, and with the proximity of the luggage he ended up looking directly into his face. It was just such a classic thing for him to do that the blond couldn't help but smile back. The brunet rolled over onto his stomach and provided room on the bed, and Rogers squeezed in. It was more cramped than either would have liked, and the old frame creaked in protest at their combined weight.

"I tell you what, though. I'm really missing each of us having our own bed."

"Yeah. Your elbows are too bony."

"I really enjoyed not having your hand slap me in the face."

"Touché." They both stopped fidgeting for space as coughing erupted from the sitting room, and they waited until it faded out before speaking again.

"That must be Mrs. O'Brien," Bucky whispered. 

"I'd hate to go out that way," Steve murmured back. "It sounds painful."

"Mmm." Footsteps came up the hall and passed by their room, pausing for a moment.

"All right, boys. Lights out," Sarah called before continuing on her way. 

"Yes, mum," they both replied softly. Kicking off their shoes and changing into their pajamas, they climbed under the covers and Steve reached over to turn out the light. 

"Is the window open?" Bucky asked. 

"... Yep. The wind must be blowing in from the bay. Hopefully it'll change direction before we die of heat stroke." 

For once they both fell asleep relatively quickly, even Steve- who always suffered from Bucky throwing his arm across his chest, effectively pinning him- had little trouble after the tiresome journey. It was a peaceful night, and the morning dawned without any special deviation from normal activity. Around seven Rogers shuddered in his sleep, which Barnes immediately reacted to by sitting bolt upright with a gasp.

"What?" Steve muttered sleepily, not fully waking quite yet. 

"Nothing," Bucky said quickly, stifling a yawn. 

"Well, if it's nothing I'd appreciate it if you'd move your arm."

"Hmm?" 

"You always pin me," the blond retorted, wriggling out from underneath his friend's limb and unceremoniously plummeting to the floor. 

"That sounded like it hurt," Barnes commented, peering over the edge of the bed.

"It wouldn't be necessary if you didn't move in your sleep."

"And you don't?"

"I try to keep as still as possible so that my knees and elbows don't get you. I'm fully aware of how sharp they are, thanks to your incessant reminders."

"Really?" Bucky asked as a fresh shirt slid over his broad shoulders. 

"Mmm." 

"I actually thrash in my sleep?"

"A _lot._ " 

"Sorry. I wasn't aware of that. I'll try not to anymore." Arguing with a suspender strap that had twisted itself several times, he added, "I've been sleeping over here for how many years and you haven't mentioned this until now?" 

"Didn't see any reason to. You don't argue with your personal winter furnace," Steve replied, struggling to maintain his balance as his foot caught in one of the trouser legs. Bucky flattened himself against the wall as he danced around the tiny room on one foot in an attempt to remain upright.

"Easy there, kid. You're not Fred Astaire."

"You're the one with delusions of becoming the next Carey Grant," the blond muttered as he sat on the bed to pull on his socks. 

"Good, I thought you were awake," Sarah said as she walked by their door. "You were making enough noise to wake the dead in there. Come on out. I'd like you to be in the kitchen within five minutes."

"Yes ma'am." There was oatmeal awaiting them when they arrived, and they settled into their seats with habit. 

"Mum, is there anything we can do to help you with-"

"That's a nice thought James, but I'd rather the two of you stayed out of the apartment."

"... Okay." Bucky exchanged a glance with Steve, who gave an imperceptible shrug. They all looked toward the window as a woman shouted, 

"Sarah!"

"Melinda?" She said, frowning as she opened the window wider to stick her head out. "What's wrong?" 

"Laura's got the flu, and they need you to come in today."

"But I can't. I've got-"

"They _need_ you to come in today."

"Ah... All right," Sarah muttered, running her fingers through her hair. "I'll just need a minute."

"That's fine." Steve and Bucky were watching her when she turned around.

"As a matter of fact, there _is_ something you can help me with. Keep an eye on O'Brien, would you? Here's her syringe."

"What for?"

"It's insulin, Steven. She has diabetes. You know how to insert the needle already because of your epinephrine. If she starts coughing, get her a clean handkerchief to use, maybe a glass of water. She won't eat anything you'll try to give her. Refused yesterday, and I expect nothing different until the end. And about her cough: It... might get a bit bloody."

"You mean she'll cough up blood?" Bucky asked, eyes widening.

"Yes." Handing the insulin to her son Sarah remarked, "You know, I wish they'd have had this when your father was around. He had diabetes too."

"He did?" Steve commented quietly.

"Mmm. Nothing severe, but... Oh, I have to go. Give her the insulin once at noon." Giving them each a quick peck on the forehead she added, "I can never appreciate your help enough. You'll do fine; I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Bye, mum!" As soon as the door was closed they checked on their patient. She was sound asleep, taking in shallow and ragged breaths. The two boys went back into the kitchen and began cleaning up as quietly as possible. They stayed in the kitchen for the remainder of the morning, and at noon Steve went in to give Mrs. O'Brien the insulin. She silently presented her arm for the injection, her eyes tired and her breathing ragged. 

"Thank you," she whispered, so softly Steve barely caught the hoarse, choking words. 

"You're welcome." O'Brien began coughing, and he hastily handed her a handkerchief, pretending not to notice the awesome amount of watery blood and saliva that came up. Misty eyes focused on the piano on the other side of the room. 

"You play?" She wheezed. 

"Learning to," the blond answered as he filled her a glass of water from the pitcher sitting on the coffee table. The meaning behind her question suddenly sank in. "Would you like me to play something?"

"If you.. have to practice... that would be fine too..."

"I think I know a few pieces."

"Thank you." Steve went over to the old piano and sat on the bench. He took a moment to find a piece he'd already learned from the stack of sheet music sitting on top, and then began to play. The tune of "Shenandoah" softly echoed through the apartment, and O'Brien- being a self-proclaimed Missourian at heart- smiled at the song. Bucky tentatively came in and then left to get the mail, returning to sort it into bills and letters, and he began quietly humming along. When Steve finished the piece he selected other soothing moods, and when those ran out he let Bucky have a turn at the hymnal. Mrs. O'Brien seemed to be in a relaxed state the entire time, as if the music helped to calm her and dull the pain. Every once in a while she'd break into a horrible coughing fit, which always produced great quantities of mixed mucus and blood. The boys were careful in handling the infected handkerchiefs. 

Sarah Rogers returned to the apartment to hear the sound of "Old Rugged Cross" being played on the piano as something delicious was being boiled on the stove to find her patient weakly sipping warm broth from a bowl that her son was holding around 6:00 o'clock that night. Mrs. O'Brien passed away three days later in her sleep, her features indicating it had been peaceful. A second cousin arranged for her burial and lifted that weight from their shoulders, having come from Missouri. 


	15. Holiday

Snow fell thickly from a dull gray sky. It was late evening, and the streets of Brooklyn were oddly bare of life. Here and there angelic imprints lay in the layer of white already blanketing the ground, muffling all noise. Brick walls were pocketed with explosions from icy projectiles- more often than not laced with bits of gravel and dirt- when a quick-witted target had had the sense to dodge out of the way, giving the name of their baseball team a whole new meaning. Half-demolished snowmen stood on the steps of the apartment buildings, destroyed by a well-aimed toss of the morning newspapers. The coal trucks had been making several runs that week alone, desperately trying to combat the freezing temperatures by increasing their deliveries. Every morning the unlucky individual to have the room nearest the coal chute would be awakened by the harsh rumbling noise of the ebony lumps tumbling into the household buckets and landing with an echoing bang. Winter's hold had become like iron, and individuals of all ages were eagerly awaiting the warmth of Spring.

And so it happened that two pairs of very blue and very bright eyes peered out of the sitting room window of the Rogers' tiny apartment, scanning the road below for some sign of Lt. Barnes' old Ford Model T. The date was December 25th, 1930. 

"Staring out that window won't make him come any quicker," Sarah called from the kitchen. "Now get in here and help me with this dinner. This is going to be the first Christmas we've had where we could actually afford a tree, and I'm not going to make light of the occasion."

"I still don't understand why they couldn't let him off duty earlier," Bucky grumbled as they peeled themselves away from their vigil and plodded reluctantly into indentured servitude. 

"You know exactly why, James Barnes. He was serving as honor guard in a fellow soldier's funeral procession." Bucky winced as his full name drifted through the turkey-scented air. Sarah Rogers was on the warpath, and it was best to tread lightly. He settled into the task of peeling potatoes without complaint as Steve began to crush the cranberries for the sauce, and the sliced spuds were then covered in grated cheddar cheese. 

"Good work," Sarah praised as she kneaded the dough for the bread. "James, if you could put the potatoes in the oven-"

"Which rack?"

"The one above the turkey. Steven, cranberries-"

"In the window box, to save room in our minuscule ice box."

"Without the dramatics, please."

"Yes, ma'am." Steve raised his eyebrows as he passed Bucky, who chuckled quietly into his sleeve. They all looked toward the hallway as the door creaked open, letting in a blast of icy air. 

"Would you believe me if I told you I had icicles in my hair?" Lt. Barnes said loudly, announcing his presence. He walked into the kitchen, military fatigues damp from the snow getting in past his thick overcoat. 

"Yes," both boys answered at once. John smiled, taking his hat and dropping it on his son's head. He suddenly frowned.

"Steven, what _happened_ to you?" Steve felt the cut on his lip and the bruising around his right eye. It would be black tomorrow. 

"He got pasted with a snowball," Bucky replied, peering out from underneath the wide brim of the Lieutenant's hat. "We walked right into crossfire without knowing it, coming around the corner by the drugstore. I got one to the back of the head. Had gravel in it." 

"And here I was thinking it too cold for anything outdoors," John muttered. "Sarah."

"John. Make yourself useful and beat some sense into this bread, would you? I've got a turkey to attend to."

"Yes ma'am," he said, giving a sloppy salute. 

"And you two!" Sarah swung around to face Steve and Bucky. "Stop grinning like monkeys and set the table."

"Sure thing, Mum!" They scampered off to the folded linen lying on top of the piano.

"Have you noticed that she gets really snippy when she's stressed?" Bucky murmured, careful to keep his voice low.

"Shh... You want her to hear you?" Steve wheezed back. "That's asking for trouble." 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" A faint cough preceded the words.

"You sound like you're coming down with something," Barnes replied worriedly. 

"It's just a sore throat," Rogers said unconvincingly as he suppressed a shiver. 

"Mmhmm." Bucky remained unconvinced. Steve hadn't been the same since he's caught Scarlet Fever; his asthma was worse, he got sick more often, and he was frailer overall. Bucky trod around the issue as if it were made of glass, but kept one eye on his health at all times. 

"I'm sure it's nothing," Steve muttered, grabbing the table sheet and carrying it into the kitchen. Carefully spreading the creamy cloth over the table, he turned around to see Bucky juggling the plates and flatware. 

"If you'll get the glasses," he grunted, dodging Sarah as she scurried from the oven to the ice box. 

"Yep! I'll get- _yipe!"_

"Sorry, Stevie; I didn't see you there."

"My foot!"

"I didn't mean to!"

"You did too!"

"Didn't."

"Did."

"If you two are going to argue, out!" Sarah growled, shooing them away. Once around the corner, they allowed themselves victorious grins.

"A job well done, Mr. Barnes," Steve said, offering his hand.

"I concur Mr. Rogers," Bucky replied, taking his hand and shaking it. "I concur."

"Boys, I know what you were doing," John commented quietly, making them jump. They relaxed when they saw his wide smile. "I only wish I could have thought of it first."

"John, the bread!" 

"Coming!"

"Have fun," Bucky snickered.

"Don't push your luck," Lt. Barnes warned, stomping back into the kitchen. 

"Where'd you stash the presents?" Steve whispered in his friend's ear.

"Under the bed," the brunette whispered back. 

"Okay. We'd better finish decorating the tree." It was a scrawny thing, malnourished branches dropping their browning needles to the scuffed wooden floor despite the astounding amount of water it had been given, the greedy thing lapping it up as quickly as it was put down. It had been carefully strung with popcorn and had had candles nestled in relatively safe positions, and awaited the lightweight, handmade ornaments which Bucky was extracting from a cupboard in an old box. He handed it to Steve and then climbed on the edge of the sofa, placing a tin angel topper on the top. Miraculously, the tiny tree held. Taking this as a general announcement that the branches were stable, paper cards fastened to fish hooks and a few nice, glass doves were soon suspended from the balding perches. Those had been the Barnes' contribution; the Rogers' consisted of a few odd knickknacks, a small and delicate windchime here, and needleworks depicting passages of scripture there. The strangest of all were the ragged pieces of cloth, tied to a piece of wire and hung above the nearest window. A red candle was placed underneath it and lit, lying in a bed of holly leaves. Steve set this up carefully, his fingers running softly over the two last and newest fragments. The candle burst into a slow flame, throwing up the smell of holly into the air. 

"What is that?" Bucky asked, frowning quizzically as he failed to find a proper reason for this tradition. 

"These pieces of cloth are cut from the uniforms of the men who died in service in my family," Steve said softly, fingering the two new fragments. "This one was my father's. And this one was my Uncle William's. After his patrol boat capsized in a storm in October, the British Navy sent us his uniform." 

"Oh... Right. How could I forget?" Barnes muttered, slapping himself in the forehead. Rogers said nothing, but shook his head in fond exasperation. 

They were soon seated around the table, properly enjoying Christmas for the first time in many, many years. Neither family, broken after the loss of their loved ones, had had much cause for celebration, and Lieutenant Barnes had been on duty for the past few years, leaving the others with the strange feeling that there was something missing to overshadow the self-proclaimed holiday of "peace on Earth and goodwill to men."

"In all my life," Lt. Barnes remarked contentedly, leaning back from the table, "I have never had cranberry dressing so delicious. Your recipe is the master of all. What's the secret?"

"I can't tell," Sarah replied somewhat mischievously. "The recipe's been handed down through my family for five generations. You only teach your children after they swear a vow of silence."

"I wasn't allowed to watch Steve make it," Bucky sulked. "And I'm good with secrets!" 

"You're _horrible_ with secrets," Steve shot back. "If we thought you could handle the responsibility, it _might_ be taken under consideration." 

"You guard your cooking more securely than Fort Knox guards the gold deposit," John laughed. He was rewarded by a smile from Sarah and, most likely seeking to remain in good grace, began clearing the table. Bucky hopped up and bolted to the sink to fill it with warm, sudsy water as Steve grabbed all of the dirty dishes. His mother was shooed into the sitting room and denied access to the kitchen. She winced at a tremendous crashing sound, which was immediately followed by a banging thud and the terrible shattering of something made of glass.

"Do I want to know?" She called sarcastically. 

"I didn't know you got a cat," John shouted back.

"We don't-"

_"You again?! Out!"_

"Easy, Stevie! What'd that cat ever do to you?!" 

"Boys, just- look out!"

"Whoa!" _Crash!!_

"You okay, Buck? Hey, where'd it go?" 

"Out the window? Steven, who opened it?"

"Uh... Heheh." Sighing, Sarah came back into the kitchen to find exactly two casualties: a plate cleanly cracked into three large shards and Bucky pinned underneath an overturned chair.

"Not having anything to do with what just happened," John commented as he lifted the furniture off of his son, "but how are you enjoying working as a nurse again?"

"Much better than sitting in a factory. I feel like I'm making a difference as a nurse, and I haven't felt that way in a long time."

"Great. So you were a nurse over in..."

"France. Behind some of the front lines, sometimes farther away. Spent a few months stationed in England toward the end." 

"You've got a deal with the owner of the apartment, right? He gives low rent to families that lost someone in the War?" They had moved into the living room, and Steve and Bucky were shifting impatiently on their feet waiting for their parents to sit.

"Yes. We'd be in a tenement if not for his generosity." Sarah raised her eyebrows as John began groping in his pockets for a cigarette, and catching the pointed glance toward Steve he quit, settling into the armchair and tapping the armrests with his fingers. 

"Finally," Bucky whispered into Steve's ear before scampering into their bedroom with the blonde on his heels. They returned with two parcels conspicuously hidden behind their backs, wrapped in plain brown butcher's paper and tied with twine. Each presented the one they were holding to their respective parent before going to sit on the floor near the coal furnace. 

"Boys, where did you get the money for this?" John asked as he carefully began unwrapping his present. 

"From the money we made last summer," Bucky replied. He was smiling widely as his father unwrapped a beautiful set of cuff-links. They were unconventional, made of bronze instead of gold or silver and were shaped like narrow rhombuses. 

"These are beautiful, thank you. Where did you get them?"

"If I told, it wouldn't be a mystery." 

"This is exquisite," Sarah said, fingering two light blue satin hair ribbons. "It must have been expensive."

"Oh... Did we mention we pooled our savings?" Steve retorted with a smirk. Sarah raised an eyebrow before getting up and kissing him on the head. Bucky tried to duck, but was too late and got his hair tussled by his father as Lt. Barnes walked over to the tree and lifted up the drooping branches. There were two small and lumpy parcels underneath, wrapped and tied in the same brown paper and twine. The two boys handled the gifts addressed to them as if the wrappings were silk, delicately overseeing the extraction with sensitive yet quick fingers. Bucky took a large intake of breath as he drew out a silver necklace chain and pendant, which was a locket. He opened it slowly, and inside was a picture of his younger siblings, his father, himself, and his mother. 

"We look happy," he whispered, wiping a happy tear out of his eye.

"We were. This necklace was your mother's. I wanted to get you something either useful or meaningful, and I stumbled across this while looking through a few boxes back in the apartment." Bucky shot to his feet and embraced his father in a genuine bear hug while Steve unwrapped his present.

"Wow! A real inhaler!"

"Now you don't have to carry around a needle of epinephrine in your pocket," Sarah said, eyeing her son fondly. The blonde launched himself into her arms in an impressive display of nonexistent agility, causing her to laugh heartily after the breath had been squished from her lungs. 

"This is the best Christmas ever," Bucky proclaimed.

"Ditto," Steve agreed. John and Sarah looked over the heads of their sons at each other and smiled.


	16. In the Line of Duty

Sarah Rogers was humming quietly along to the song on the radio as she washed the clothing before leaning out the kitchen window and hanging it on the line to dry. A warm spring wind was blowing in from the Bay and carried the scent of garlic into the apartment from the restaurants between them and the waterfront, drowning out the far more subtle and aesthetically pleasing odor of the soap. The morning paper rested on the coffee table in the sitting room, the date reading "April 9th, 1931" underneath the larger heading "Scottsboro Boys Defended by Jewish Lawyer from New York." Steve and Bucky were stretched out across the floor, books and papers littering the area around them as they studied for their high school entry exam. Every eighth grader had to take it if they wanted to continue their education at the pre-college level, and they'd heard from several sources that it was notoriously difficult. 

All three looked up when there was a knock at the door, and Sarah put down the shirt she was scrubbing, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to answer it. 

"Oh, good afternoon private. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact ma'am, there is. I'm terribly sorry to say-" Steve and Bucky looked up when the brush Mrs. Rogers had been holding clattered to the floor. 

"Thank you. I- I'll tell him myself." 

"I'm so sorry, ma'am. Give my sincerest condolences to the family." The door closed with a sqeaking thud, and Sarah walked unsteadily into the living room. Steve and Bucky exchanged a glance as she settled slowly into an armchair. Something was wrong. 

"Mum?" Steve asked hesitantly. She started, as if realizing they were still there. Her gaze drifted in and out of focus as she searched the room for something before settling on Bucky, and then her usually soft blue eyes sharpened with a frightening pain and intensity. She took his hands in hers and leaned forward until their faces were mere inches apart.

"James, your father... He's not coming back." Bucky simply stared back, uncomprehending. "Ever. There was an accident in the war games they were drilling, and live grenades got mixed in with the duds. He- he jumped on one to save the life of his commanding officer and absorbed the blast with his body." The words finally sunk in, and the brunet sank back onto the floor with his eyes filled with horror and pain. Steve was staring blankly at nothing in particular, dealing with the news in the only way he could. He simply checked out. Sarah wrapped her arms around both boys and hugged them close, feverishly kissing their heads in repeated rapid succession. It was a long while before any of them felt capable of going outside, but they somehow managed to clamber into the back of the military vehicle waiting for them to ferry them to the camp. 

\----------------------------------------------

They had been given one of the guest bedrooms of the officer's quarters while the funeral arrangements were being worked out, and while Steve and Sarah interacted with the sickeningly overkind soldiers they came into contact with when eating at the mess or walking back from the bathhouse, Bucky rarely left the room. He had gone as quiet as a mouse and about as active as an old cat who had found a patch of sunshine to lay in. Nothing Steve did made any difference, and after a while the blond quit trying. He stayed by Bucky's side and said nothing, but would read or work on a crossword puzzle.

The funeral was a solemn affair, in which 1st Lt. John Barnes was accorded the highest of honors for the protection of his superior officer. Bucky barely made it through the ceremony without breaking his composure, and when it was over he walked briskly back toward the building.

"Bucky!" Steve called, chasing after him. "Wait up!" The brunette kept walking, his pace faltering slightly when he heard the consistent rasping pant of his asthmatic friend and then speeding up until he was going full tilt at a run. "Bucky!"

"Just leave me alone!" He shouted over his shoulder, wiping tears out of his eyes with a clenched fist. The sound of footsteps pounding on the ground behind him intensified, yet still he heard them growing softer as he outpaced the blonde by three to one. He raced into the bedroom and slammed the door with a tremendous bang, throwing himself down onto the bed and burying his face into the pillow. He screamed, the sound strangling so that it didn't travel beyond the walls of what he felt at that moment to be a prison cell. The bed creaked as Steve sat on the edge, and Bucky tensed as his friend put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He shook it off.

"Eev ee ehone," he sobbed, muffled by the pillow.

"I'm not leaving you, _ever_ ," Rogers retorted firmly. "Bucky, _please_. Look at me." Barnes sat up abruptly, his eyes red and cheeks flushed.

"I've got nobody now," he spat. "Dad was the only family I had left. All my brothers and sisters, gone. With my mama."

"That's not true."

"It is. I'm on my own now."

"No, you're _not_. You've got me, and mum. You heard the will. He wanted you to come live with us if he- you're coming back with us."

"My dad's _gone,_ Steve! He's never coming back. I'll never see him again."

"You don't think I don't know that? He was the closest thing I've ever had to a father figure in my life. I lost a dad too. My real one, and then the one that actually made a difference."

"I want to be left alone," Bucky repeated once more, a gleam of anger coming into his eyes. It was a dangerous look, one that the blond had rarely ever seen before. It had always been directed at other children anyways, at the bullies. 

"Don't push me away," Steve pleaded. It wasn't one of desperation, but firm and determined. He swallowed, and winced as he said, "I still want to be your little brother." Barnes simply stared at him for a moment, his anger at his friend dissolving. Rogers hated being called his "little brother," because of his smaller and frailer frame. He'd always felt it to be demeaning, and the brunette had quit using it when he'd seen how the blonde hated it. The anger suddenly exploded, and he turned to punch the pillow repeatedly with a clenched fist.

"Hey, hey, hey! Stop it! What'd that pillow ever do to you?" Steve protested. He grabbed Bucky's arm and jerked it backward with a ferocity and unexpected show of strength that temporarily caught him off guard. "If you want to hit something, hit me." Steve took a few steps back and made a deliberate show of dropping his hands to his sides. "I won't stop you, but you'd be better off punching something that bleeds."

"Stevie-"

"I'm serious. If you're that angry, hit something that can break and bruise." He closed his eyes and let out a sharp sigh as Bucky barreled into him and hugged him, burying his face into the blond's shoulder and properly letting himself cry. "I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you." 

"I know," Barnes choked. "I'm sorry."

It was a good few moments before they both sat back on the bed, an air of defeat settling over the room like a fine mist. Bucky eventually unclenched his fist to reveal the lucky bullet his father his given him all those years ago.

"He took a bullet to the arm. Always said it brought him luck, because the nurse that pulled it out was my mother." There had been a ring put into it for a chain before he'd ever received it, and he pulled out a random length of twine which he'd looted a week ago from the neighbors. His fingers shook as he threaded it through the ring, and then he tied the ends together and let it fall around his neck. It landed with a dull thud against his chest.

"At least I'll have something to remember him by." Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of cloth. Bucky stared at it uncomprehendingly.

"To tie to the Christmas memorial with the rest of my family's," he explained. "He was my dad too." Barnes made a weak attempt at a half-hearted smile, and managed a sort of rueful grin filled with pain. Rogers pocketed the cloth strip- a piece of Lt. Barnes' uniform- and leaned into his friend's shoulder. "We'll get through this, somehow."

"I guess I can if I've got you," Bucky murmured, resting his head against Steve's. 

Sarah Rogers returned to the guest room late that night to find her boys wrapped together in a twisted mess of blankets, and wiped away the tears in her eyes when she saw one taking comfort from the other. 


	17. Brothers

Steve got halfway through the door and froze; he braced himself and entered the apartment. It had been so long since he'd been inside, and even longer since Bucky had properly been living there. Lt. Barnes had rented it with five other officers from his unit, and it had the feel of a temporary home that multiple people were interchangeably using. The cupboards were all but empty, the curtains full of dust, and the icebox entirely bare and dry as a bone. In the closet he found a single leisure suit that belonged to someone other than John Barnes. The bed was made and the linen recently washed, but Steve felt it was more of the kind that happened in hotels than constant and attentive upkeep. There was the strong smell of cigarettes and cheap cigars, and Rogers brought his sleeve up to his mouth as he felt his throat begin to close up. The scent was embedded in everything, from the fabric to the walls, and the blond knew that this was the reason that Lt. Barnes and his mother had preferred Bucky come over to Steve's apartment. 

It was a lonely-looking apartment, that was for certain. Steve cast around, looking for anything that actually belonged to his adoptive father figure and his eyes settled on an old plaid blanket with several evident patches in it. He picked it up and smiled.

\----------------------------

_"Are you sure this blanket will be a good parachute?" Bucky asked as they prepared to leap out of the second story window into the empty street below._

_"Of course," Steve replied matter-of-factly. "Have you ever seen a sheet that wasn't?"_

_"Well, no..."_

_"Then it's settled. In three, two, one..."_

_"Geronimo!" Bucky shouted gleefully as he leaped into the warm sunshine of July, 1927._

_"Wa-hoo!" Steve exclaimed as he jumped right after with a bed sheet. For a few seconds everything went as planned; the material bloomed like a stretch of canvas and caught the wind. Below they could see Bucky's father with an expression of horror crossing over his face as he raced across the street from the drug store on the corner._

_"What are you_ doing!?" _He shouted. Bucky let out a yelp as he crashed into a clump of rose bushes directly beneath him, and then another as Steve landed right on top of him._

_"Are you nuts?" John growled as he hauled them to their feet, shaking them somewhat roughly as he did so._

_"We were trying to be paratroopers," Rogers explained as he and Barnes were dragged by the collars of their coats indoors and up the stairs, back into the apartment._

_"Don't ever do that again," John snapped._

_"Don't worry," Bucky grunted, flexing a shoulder. "Our experiment didn't nearly yield the results we were hoping for. Next time we'll be navymen."_

_"No, no navymen, no paratroopers, no infantry, no artillery." Lt. Barnes knelt down so that he was eye level with them both. "War isn't a game. Good men and women died for their countries, on both sides."_

_"But the Krauts-"_

_"-Are soldiers just like I was. Like_ your _father was, Steven. We were fighting for ideals on both sides. Did it ever occur to them that the side they were fighting for was the wrong one? Of course it did." John paused. "The sensible ones, anyway. It's the crazy ones you hear about. It occurred to me. But we kept fighting, because it was our duty. We were fighting for our homes, our families. It gets real personal, war. It has never been a game. Do you understand?"_

_"Yessir," both boys replied meekly._

_"Good. Make your forts, draw your battle plans, but always remember that real war isn't a game."_

\------------------------------------------------

"Steve?" 

"Stevie?"

"Hmm?" Rogers snapped back, and looked over to see Bucky eyeing him curiously. 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah, I just remembered something is all," he replied, tossing the patched plaid blanket at Barnes' head. He caught it easily, a sentimental smile flitting across his face as he ran his fingers over the worn and abused material.

"You find anything else here worth keeping of his?"

"Nah, that's it really. Place was pretty bare."

"I expected as much. Most of his things were over at our apartment anyway, or at the camp." The smile faded, his eyes filling with sadness. Steve frowned, swallowed. He then slung his arm over his friend's broad shoulders, stretching up a bit to do so. 

"Come on. Let's go home." 

"So if you divide by the reciprocal, you get...?" Bucky asked. The question was followed by a grunt of exertion as he hauled himself over the high bar and did a flip. They were in the gymnasium; he was practicing while Steve sat on a bench reading out of his notebook.

"You're supposed to _multiply_ by the reciprocal in this instance," Steve corrected, his eyebrows furrowing with concentration. 

"Right, right. Sorry. Multiplying by the reciprocal... Uh... Is the answer 12 over 5?" 

"... Yes." 

"Hey, Barnes!" Rogers looked up from what he was doing, sighed when he saw who had called out to his friend, and buried his head in his notes again.

"Fezini!" Bucky shouted back, executing a back flip over the bar and letting go, somersaulting through the air to land neatly on the mat. 

"Gee whiz, you're getting good," the Italian muttered as he clasped Barnes' shoulder affectionately. "You ready for regionals next Saturday?"

"Well..."

"Course he is," Rogers piped up from the bench without looking up from the book. "The _real_ question is whether he's ready for his math test or not."

"Okay, okay," Bucky chuckled. "You've made your point, kid. What time is it?"

"Seven after four."

"She's gonna kill us."

"You mean, she's going to kill _you_. I told you half an hour ago we needed to get going, and what did you say? 'Five more minutes?' "

"We can still make it if we hurry," Bucky defended sourly. "See ya later, Fez." He slipped into the locker room for a quick shower, grabbed his bag on the way out as he and Steve jogged lightly to the street corner and taking a calculated risk, jumped onto the back of a moving streetcar. They sprinted into the apartment and skidded to a halt directly in front of Sarah Rogers, who stood in the doorway with tapping foot. She pointed silently toward their room, and sheepishly they slunk in to get changed into fancy dress. They received the silent treatment all the way to the church, and then the wedding began for someone they didn't even know and they sat sulkily in the pew as the reverend droned onward. 

"When do we get to throw the rice at them?" Bucky whispered. 

"No idea," Steve whispered back. "But that's the only exciting part of a wedding, if you ask me."

"And the free food afterward."

"Shh!" Bucky gave Steve a smirk as Sarah admonished them, and the rest of the ceremony was filled with fidgeting and tugging at ties to feign having a hard time breathing. 

\-----------------------------------------

"Inexcusable," Sarah muttered afterward. She was pacing on the warpath up and down in the small living room as Bucky and Steve sat mutely on the sofa listening. Somehow her accent became more Irish when she was angry, so her full-blown rant was heavily inflected. "Absolutely inexcusable. I've got half a mind not to let you go for the opening of the Empire State Building." _That_ got their attention.

"Aw, Mum!" Steve exclaimed. "Everyone else is going!"

"If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you?"

"Depends on the bridge," Bucky said carelessly; as soon as the words were out he clapped his hand over his mouth with a look of horror on his face and melted deeper into the couch. 

"Mum, we're starting high school this fall," Steve said persuasively. "I'm almost thirteen, Bucky already is. I'm sorry we acted like we were still in grammar school. I really am." 

"I am too," Bucky said quietly. Sarah looked at her two sons and made a loud, exasperated sigh. Her eyes were still an intense and aggressive blue, but she made an effort to curb her anger. 

"I suppose you can go." 

"Thanks," they both chirped meekly before sliding off to their room. 

"Now wait just a minute," she said sharply, calling them back. The two boys froze, wincing. "I've got longer shifts at the hospital now. One of the senior nurses quit, and they want me to fill in her hours. I just thought you should know so that you won't worry, all right? This is a permanent change."

"Yes mum," Steve said.

"Good luck," Bucky added. Sarah smiled.

"Well, now you can go," she said, giving them her permission. They immediately tore down the hall to escape from their formal apparel. The smile faded as she looked at the letter dictating her new position, effectively moving her into the Tuberculosis Ward.


	18. When it Rains...

Steve stood at the graveside, his suit rumpled and loose-fitting. It had been perfect just a week before, but fighting off a chest cold had caused him to drop substantially in weight. 

Quite a few members of the nearby community, including their priest, fellow church members, neighbors, co-workers, and the like stopped by to pay their dues. Each one kept saying how sorry they were and what a waste it was that someone in the prime of their life should be gone so soon. Steve barely heard them, just as he ignored the biting November wind. He practically blended into the gray sky that threatened snow and most everyone tread around him as if he were glass. It was hard to tell how someone was doing when they barely reacted to inquiry at all.

* * *

Bucky never wanted to witness another Catholic funeral ever again. It had been hard enough the first time, and he knew that the last would be for his friend. The difference between Protestant and Catholic funeral practices was blinding to him; he'd never even been inside a Catholic church before. Despite growing up with the Rogers they had respected his and his father's faith, and after Lt. Barnes had died Bucky would attend Sunday service with an elderly couple that lived down the hall. He would go to their apartment for certain things, and on the Holidays Bucky would return to the Rogers' apartment to engage in festivities. When he'd gotten older he would attend church on his own without a need for adult supervision.

And he never wanted to witness another Catholic funeral ever again. 

Steve was mostly to the apartment by the time he caught up; the wooden steps creaked ominously underneath their combined weight and both paused to make sure that there was a safe place for them to step. Bucky had spent the week with his cousins; he hadn’t slept since he’d got the call that Sarah had died. Guilt had racked him, settling like a rock in his hollow chest. 

If he’d known she had been doing so poorly... 

Sarah hadn’t said anything. She never did when she got sick, but this was different. She’d known she was dying. Why hadn’t she asked him to stay? 

Steve was in no condition to look after himself that night, so Bucky fixed dinner in silence and they sat across from each other in silence while they ate. Afterward, they washed up and went to sit in the living room. Steve had turned the radio on, but neither was paying attention. It was just spouting off the same content about vigilance and patriotism that it had been doing ever since the attack on Pearl Harbor, and they’d heard it all before a million times. 

Bucky happened to glance at the coffee table and inhaled slightly.

“That an enlistment form?” He asked quietly. 

“Yeah.” 

“I take it you didn’t pass.” 

“And what about it?” Steve asked tersely. He was looking at Bucky, daring him to say something he wouldn’t like. Bucky stared back. 

“Look, we both knew from the start that they’d never let you in.”

“No point in trying?”

“I didn’t say that.” Bucky cleared his throat. “But I _am_ relieved. No use pretending I’m not. Steve, war isn’t-”

“What, a game? I _know_ that, Buck. But I’ve got to try.” 

“And you did. Just leave it at that, okay?” Bucky was pleading now. “That’s all I’m asking. I’m not going to be around to make sure you’re not getting into trouble someday.” The angry look slowly left Steve’s face to be replaced by worry.

“What are you talking about? You enlist?” Bucky cleared his throat again, leaning forward in the armchair. He made an effort to put on an optimistic smile. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Passed, too. Flying colors. Gotta report to a training base next week.” Steve nodded, taking a slight inhale of breath and doing his best to look happy for his best friend. 

“Tha-that’s great. Just be careful, all right?” 

“You know me.” Bucky smirked. “I’m always careful. _You’re_ the one needs an attitude adjustment.” 

“I mean it.” Light blue eyes looked concernedly into dark blue. 

“I know.” 

* * *

Steve was asleep on the couch before Bucky felt like he could catch a few winks himself, sleeping off his illness and all the tense emotion he’d stuffed away to get through the service and the burial. He’d cried himself to sleep with his head on Bucky’s shoulder while Bucky read a book that hadn’t really interested him all that much, and then Bucky had gently laid him out on the sofa with a swathe of blankets and gone to sit out on the fire escape. 

It was what Steve had done for him when he’d lost his dad. 

The night was cool but not too breezy, and quite enjoyable. Bucky glanced back inside the apartment and sighed. He glanced back down at the draft letter he was holding in his hands and closed his eyes, shoulders shaking ever so slightly as the tears started pricking in the corners of his eyes. 


	19. A Leap of Faith

Steve had no trouble seeing the ground rapidly approach as the sky was illuminated by heavy flak bursting around him. He knew it was under the worst conditions that he made his first actual parachute jump, but the circumstances were critical. Bucky and the rest of the 107th could be dead or prisoner by now, and if it were the latter they'd be left to rot until the war ended. It occurred to him as he struggled out of his chute and dragged it underneath a clump of bushes that he'd gone off half-cocked, without any semblance of a plan or backup, and that if everyone made it out alive Bucky would kill him anyway for being a reckless idiot. It had completely slipped his mind that Bucky didn't know about _Project: Rebirth_ and he was a lot taller than the last time his friend had seen him. All that mattered was getting there. _Got to take this a piece at a time._

Sprinting easily through the mist-shrouded trees, Steve came upon a hastily cut road. Flattening himself against an embankment as a convoy rumbled slowly by, he waited until the last truck had passed before chasing after it. _That's my ticket in._ Leaping into the back, he landed in front of two Hydra soldiers.

"Fellas," he said, surrendering to the inevitable. The next few moments flew by as ensuing madness engulfed the back of the vehicle. Fists were flying faster than he could dodge in the poor light, but his response time was quicker than theirs. He felt more than saw his knuckles connect with jaws and his boots with legs. Determining their position, he dropped down to let them collide; in the confusion he delivered the knock-out blows before depositing them over the back of the truck, letting them fall into the road. 

"Ist alles in ordnung?" The driver called sharply.

"Uh.. Ja!" Steve replied, hoping it was a yes or no question. 

"Zer gut." He relaxed slightly, guessing that "gut" meant "good." He sat back and waited for the truck to stop bouncing through the muddy ditches, defensively putting the flimsy shield between him and the tarp-covered opening of the back. When at last they rolled to a halt he listened to the heavy tread of a guard inspecting the vehicles, and waited until he lifted the canvas to strike. A quick thrust of his shield brought the painted gold into the man's forehead, sending him reeling back. Making a short jump from the truck bed onto the platform, Rogers darted into the shadows and down into the courtyard before weaving through the seemingly endless rows of armored transport. Climbing up a tank and running across the flat surface of the roof, he pulled himself in through a broken window after prying the iron bars away, landing in a dimly lit hallway. _I have no idea where I'm going..._ There was a door on his right, at the end of the hall. A small window revealed an assembly area. It looked like the main floor of the factory.

Tapping the door to alert the guard's attention, Steve stepped out of sight and punched the grin off the man's face, slamming the door against his skull and dragging his unconscious form into the deserted hall before slipping into the assembly area. Darting across aisles and sliding between frankly enormous bombs, he paused as something caught his eye. The table next to him was littered with small rectangular boxes- like gun cartridges- but each had a corner that emitted bright blue light. Pocketing it later for Stark to dissect, Rogers continued on.

It was sheer luck that he found the prison block so quickly without being spotted, and an unsuspecting guard provided the keys. The men in the small, tubular cell looked up as the body fell on the iron-barred roof of their cage, a tired curiosity showing the little hope they had of rescue. Some of their eyes- if not their faces- brightened when they saw the American flag painted on his shield.

"Who're you supposed to be?" One asked.

"I'm-" his name would mean nothing. "-Captain America."

"I beg your pardon?" A British Commando retorted, eyebrows arching. 

"Never mind," Steve muttered as he dropped the keys into their cell. They sprang at the lock desperately as he leaped over a flight of stairs to descend to their level. "I'm a Captain in the United States military, if that helps."

"What unit are you with?" A U.S. Corporal asked. He sported a severely battered Bowler hat and a thick, bushy red moustache. 

"Unassigned... Propaganda," Rogers answered, the bitterness in his tone evident as the Englander took the keys over to the other cells one by one. 

"Well tell 'em they're having you do the wrong job," another soldier commented. He was a U.S. Private with dark skin and an authoritative voice. 

"Hey, that means a lot comin' from one of the original Howlers," a Lieutenant piped up. 

"Falsworth, you done yet?" The moustachioed Corporal called, ignoring the Lieutenant altogether.

"Does it look like it, Dugan?" Came the distant voice. More and more men were gathering around their rescuer, stumbling out of their cages into the open space. The Brit wove his way back through and came to stand with the Corporal.

"Is there anybody else?" Steve asked. He'd searched the sea of faces, and with sinking heart hadn't spotted Bucky among them. "I'm looking for a Sergeant James Barnes." Recognition showed on a few of the faces, which relieved him.

"There's an isolation ward in the factory," Falsworth volunteered. His voice was grave. "No one's ever come back from it."

"Right." There were a lot more men to rescue than Rogers had originally thought. Stark's plane was out. "Okay. The tree line's eighty yards northwest, past the gate. Get out fast..." _Just get out and keep going..._ "I'll meet you in the clearing with anybody else I find." And with that he took off at a run, ignoring the looks on the guys' faces when he told them he knew what he was doing because he'd knocked out Adolf Hitler over two hundred times. _Stupid! What was I thinking?_ Secrecy was no longer an issue anymore. Warning lights flashed and clashed against the wailing klaxons, alerting all Hydra troops that there was a mass escape occurring, and so he battled his way back across the main floor and then up several flights of stairs. It seemed an eternity before he reached the other side, the general direction in which Cpl. Dugan had gestured as Falsworth spoke. He could hear explosions and gunfire to the northwest as he headed the opposite way. Once he got into the older brick hallways, he began busting down door after door in his pursuit for Barnes. 

Maybe it was the look on the small, balding and bespectacled man's face as he fled from him after taking one glimpse. Or perhaps it was the fact that he was running with a briefcase overflowing with papers, but Steve chose not to chase after and instead entered the room he'd just left. Only partly through the door, he heard a man mumbling.

"-geant, 32557..I-"

"Bucky?" He asked, racing to his friend's side. The mumbling abruptly ceased. He'd been lying strapped to a metal slab, a type of ray device sitting neglected in the corner. His eyes opened at the sound of Rogers' voice. "Oh, my God..." 

"I- is that-" Barnes stuttered, as if he hardly dared hope it was _anybody_ coming to rescue him.

"It's me," the blonde reassured his friend as he ripped the enhanced restraints effortlessly apart. "It's Steve."

"Steve?" Bucky whispered, unfocused eyes finding his face. There was a sort of expectation in them, in the smile. Like he thought he was dreaming, and any minute now he'd wake up to another bout of torture.

"Yeah," Rogers said, gripping his shoulder and beginning to pull him up. The physical contact made the Sergeant realize what was happening was real, and in a slightly stronger voice he said,

"Steve."

"Come on." When the brunette was finally on his feet, Steve was able to let out the breath he'd been holding. Affectionately cuffing him on the ear he admitted,

"I thought you were dead..." But Bucky had already noticed his broad shoulders and dramatic height difference, and his expression changed from one of short-lived euphoria to complete and total shock.

"... I thought you were smaller." Was all he managed to choke out. A larger explosion rocked the factory, and glancing toward its origin Steve noted the map on the wall. It clearly indicated the locations of other Hydra facilities, and taking a few moments longer to memorize their positions he turned back to the matter at hand. 

"Come on," he coaxed, easily taking in most of his friend's weight as Barnes stumbled along, having been barely able to stand. 

"W-what happened to you?" Bucky questioned brokenly, still trying to process what he was seeing with what he remembered.

"I joined the army," Steve replied, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Bucky couldn't believe _anyone,_ let alone his best friend, could have been that stupid. 

"Why?"

"It was my only chance," Steve answered promptly, attently keeping watch on all fronts as they made their way steadily down the hall. Barnes had pulled away as soon as he could out of reflex, remembering the skinny kid who hadn't been able to support his weight before realizing that _wasn't_ the man next to him at that moment.

"So you signed up for a government _experiment?"_ If he hadn't been so deeply in shock, he would've snapped. The edge to his voice was enough though.

"Uh, yeah."

"Did it hurt?" Bucky still remembered growing pains from his early teen years. It'd felt like the equivalent of having sledgehammers pounding his bones. And roughly... eight inches in under five minutes? Yikes.

"A little," Rogers said immediately, the lie so poorly concealed he didn't even bother looking away so that the brunette couldn't see him wince as he thought back. _Uh huh. I've heard that one before._

"Is it permanent?" He asked as Steve gave him a quick but steadying hand as he tripped over the uneven tiling.

"So far." _You sound happy about it._ There was one other question he wanted to ask, but refrained from doing so. _What's with the fancy frisbee you're carrying around?_ They ended up on the walkway overlooking the main floor as explosions bloomed bright and deadly across its surface. Flinching away from the heat, Bucky wiped the water from his eyes and blinked, habitually following Steve's lead; heaving himself up after his friend stair by stair, each step a jolt of pain coursing through his aching body, Barnes came to a halt when he heard a heavily accented German voice call from the other side.

"Captain America; how exciting! I'm a great fan uff your vilms!" Bucky shuddered when he spotted Zola cowering behind the form of Johann Smidt, Hydra's founder. He braced himself against the railing, trying to conserve what strength he had left and reluctantly did nothing but watch in mounting confusion as Smidt and Rogers slowly approached each other from opposite ends of the bridging catwalk. "So... Dokter Erskine managed it affter all. Not exactly and improofment, but still... Impressif." He felt satisfaction as Steve landed a heavy and solid blow across the Kraut's chin, sending him reeling backward to maintain his footing.

"You've got no idea," the blonde retorted matter-of-factly. _Yeah, you really don't... Whatever it is this Erskine guy did in the first place..._ It was Smidt's turn. He threw a fist at Steve's face, but it was blocked by that crazy shield he'd been carrying. _I guess it does have some practical uses._ For some reason Rogers' reaction was almost desperate. Fingers quick as lightning pulled a pistol from its holster, but the weapon was immediately knocked from his grasp as he was thrown backward to land on his back. A strong kick to Smidt's stomach made him land in the same way, and frantically Zola activated the bridge controls, separating it into two parts. _God forbid your precious leader should take a hit... And there goes our escape. Brilliant._ Glancing back at Hydra's ruler, Bucky frowned. His face was sagging unnaturally around the eyes and nose.

"No matter vhat lies Erskine told you, I vas iss greatest success!" He boasted, and then began to peel off his face. Except it _wasn't_ his face. It was a mask, hiding Hellish red skin tightly outling his sunken cheeks and lack of nose. 

"You don't have one of those, do you?" Barnes choked, feeling Steve's muscles tense where their elbows touched on the catwalk railing. By the time he paid attention to the conversation again, the enemy was moving into the elevator. 

"-hind! Unlike you I embrace it prowdly, vitout vear!"

"Then how come you're running?" Steve retorted tauntingly. Smidt gave a small, arrogant smile; the kind one usually produced when they were certain they were winning a fight or argument. More explosions racked the facility, and following Rogers' line of vision the brunette's gaze fell upon a support beam spanning the gap between two more catwalks. 

"Let's go. Up." Bucky did his best to follow right on his heels, but he was exhausted and feeling a level of pain he previously had been unaware had even existed. It felt as if fire was coursing through his veins, pumping whatever poisonous concoctions Hydra had developed through his cardiovascular system. Wheezing slightly by the time they reached the beam, he barely had time to register Steve saying "one at a time" before he was being helped over the safety rail.

The metal vibrated badly underneath his unsteady feet, and spreading his arms out wide to keep his balance Barnes slowly made his way across. There were several moments when he had to stop completely to avoid falling into the explosive inferno raging below him. Then came the split second of terror as the beam began to drop away from the catwalk, coming free of its restraints. Throwing caution to the winds, he ran the last few feet and took a flying leap, barely managing to cling on to the guard rail. Muscles screaming in protest at this exertion, he hauled himself up over the top and landed with a stumble on something relatively solid. Looking at the yawning gap between him and the other side, he thought, _That was close- STEVE._ Steve was still on the other side. As a gust of smoke cleared Bucky caught a glimpse of his face, his eyes. They screamed how afraid he was.

"Gotta be a rope or somethin'!" He called.

"Just go!" Rogers shouted back. "Get out of here!" 

_"No! Not without you!"_ Bucky screamed it at the top of his lungs. _I would rather die here than continue on without you. I've lost everybody I ever cared about. I can't lose you too._ Steve grimaced. Even from where he was standing Barnes could see that he was examining every alternative, looking for an out. There weren't many. He finally started bending one of the broken iron rails to provide a bigger opening, and then backed up as far as he could go. The brunette watched this transpire, mounting anxiety threatening to break free. He was going to jump. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Steve pushed off as hard as he could from the catwalk, propelling himself across the gap. About halfway over he went through a burst of smoke and heat, and unable to see felt the jarring impact as he slammed blindly against the guard rail. He clawed his way up and over, collapsing on the walkway. Smoke was billowing thickly in the area now, and he was grateful he no longer had asthma. 

"Steve?" Bucky called. There was a note of frantic desperation in his voice. 

"Over here, Buck." Rogers stood up, letting the air out of his mouth in a hiss of pain as he put pressure on his right leg. A new burst of heat began to develop on his right shoulder. "Whoa!"

"What? What happened?" Barnes demanded, arriving just in time to see the blonde trying to smother the flames on his jacket. 

"Got a little too close to the fla- Ah!" Steve's sentence was abruptly cut off as Bucky slapped him upside the back of his head. In a dramatic reversal of emotion, he then attempted to squeeze the air out of his friend's lungs. It took the blonde a few moments to realize he was shaking because he was trying not to cry into his shoulder.

"Don't _ever_ do that to me again," he ordered, pulling away. He'd switched back to being angry. "I thought you were a goner, kid. You gotta figure it out real quick that I don't think of you as being able to make jumps like that. I was about ready to have a heart attack."

"... Sorry." Steve muttered sheepishly, not quite sure how to respond. He'd never seen Bucky so scared or mad before. 

"Yeah, you'd better be," Barnes growled before stalking toward the staircase. He was holding the elevator door open when Steve limped in, the anger subsiding as he watched his movements. "You're hurt."

"Hit my ankle against the guard rail climbing over. Caught and twisted," he grunted as the elevator began going down. "Nothing really." There was an awkward silence for a bit. Then Bucky coughed into his shoulder, and it sounded suspiciously like a comment.

*cough cough* "A likely story." *cough*

"Sorry? I didn't quite get that," Steve replied, leaning against the wall of the elevator to take the pressure off of his right ankle. In return he recieved a broken smile. He hated it when he got those. Barnes' mouth would turn up at the corners as good as genuine, but his eyes always betrayed his true emotions. Right now they were wildly conflicted; the anger was dissipating slowly, replaced by something Rogers couldn't quite describe. It wasn't fear, but... The best description would be that he felt lost. He didn't know what to think. "Hey, I'm still the same guy." The false smile became somewhat exasperated.

"How do you always do that?" Bucky answered with a shake of his head, running his fingers through snarled and smoke streaked brown hair.

"You've always been an open book to me, pal." The elevator touched down, and they headed for the courtyard. The sound of gunfire had vanished, and all that was left was the crackling of flames both inside and out. The explosions were all but done; the building was being consumed by the inferno. It was a total write-off. 

"Where'd everybody go?" The brunette muttered. 

"They're past the tree line by now, headed back to camp," Steve explained. 

"What, you got 'em all out?"

"I gave 'em the keys. They got themselves out." The blonde deflected uncomfortably. 

"Sure did," Bucky said, pointing. There were several huge gaping holes in the barbed wire fence, where a tank had battered its way through. Tire tracks indicated convoy trucks had followed after. Rogers whistled in appreciation. 

"That's a fine piece of work, and no mistake." 

"Least we know where they're headed." They set off into the darkened forest, following the swath of destruction.

"So were you their first victim or what?" Bucky asked quietly after about forty minutes of silence. 

"Only one," Steve replied just as softly, a shadow crossing his face as he remembered the reason why. "A Hydra agent got in. Shot the only man in the room with the know-how to recreate the process again."

"So the project's scrapped?"

"Sorta. They took some blood samples to see if they could replicate the serum." He stopped when Barnes came to an abrupt halt, looking back to see him shudder. "You okay?" 

"Yeah. It's just a little cold out."


	20. The Experiment

Bucky was far from fine. He was barely managing not to panic. _Samples._ It was all he was able to repeat in his brain. _Samples._

They'd been warmly welcomed by the other Allied POWs in a makeshift camp a few miles due East of the Hydra facility; he'd almost been flattened by the Howlers when they saw their Sergeant alive and- for the most part- well. Everyone was asleep if one accounted for the twelve men patrolling the site, who only had an hour's parade before switching with someone else. Even Steve had curled up in a tight, motionless ball facing the outskirts of the camp, his back to Bucky's... who remained awake. With sleep came nightmares, terrible dreams of Zola's torturous experiments. Fatigue eventually overcame paranoia, and he slipped into his recent memories...

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

_One Week Earlier_

It was supposed to be a routine recconaissance mission for the 107th's A Company. They'd sent the scouts in, and all reported back on time with detailed descriptions of a limited ground force. No tanks, no air support. Less than five hundred men. The odds were in their favor. This meant, of course, that their commander had two options. Captain "Happy Sam" Sawyer decided to go for a three-pronged assault, each predated by three commando units. The Howlers (his own men and the 107th's greatest pride), Bull McGiveney's Maulers (the roughest boys out of 'em all), and Lawry O'Dowe's Destroyers (the goody-two shoes) had been selected for the tasks. 

Azzano was quiet that night. A gentle breeze was blowing in from the South and the lights twinkled distantly from the nearby city. The Howlers advanced cautiously through the calm pastures, knowing the main attack force was directly behind them. 

"Hey, Dino!" Dugan whispered. "You grew up around here, didn't you?"

"Dum Dum, you idiot! How many times do I have to tell you? I'm from _Southern Italy_."

"You'll _both_ be taking a trip down South and six feet under if you don't shut up," Bucky snapped. 

"Sorry, Sarge." 

"Percy, you and Reb go out a ways to our left. Gabe, Dugan, to the right. I want a wide area covered. Fan out."

"You got it, boss!"

"Righto."

"What about us?" Manelli murmured. 

"We're staying in the center. Go about... Ten feet to your left. Everyone come back close at that big tree at the end of the field." It was a relief to be back out in the middle of the action. The boys got jittery after a few days' leave, and it almost always ended in the guardhouse. All was silent for most of the trek through the tall grasses. Every once in a while Bucky would see a stallion or two, sleeping in that odd way where their necks were curved sideways and down. There were clouds obscuring the moon, and the silence provided a sense of false security. It was abruptly shattered when the rocky hillside in front of them exploded into great balls of flame. _Oh, no..._

"Dino! Reb! Find Cap'n Sawyer and advise him of the situation. There might be a chance we can call off the main attack force before they walk into this mess. The rest of you, find cover. _Move!"_ Two dark forms raced back the way they had come while the other silhouettes headed into the ditches trying to regroup. The sky was brightly illuminated by enemy and friendly flares alike, each side trying to see the opposition. The quiet fields were soon riddled with uneven mounds and gullies where tank fire had carved trenches into the earth. Smoke obscured the growing flames, but the heat kept increasing. 

"Manelli and Ralston should be back by now!" Dugan growled as Bucky took a flying leap and sailed into their trench. "And there's gotta be at least five more companies back at camp!"

"You're right. Gabe, radio B Company. We need backup!"

"Might be a problem!" Jones snapped. He indicated the radio equipment, which was smoking from at least three bullet holes tearing through it.

"Then we'll have to wait through it!" Barnes shouted over the blast of tank cannon. "In the meantime, do what you can."

"Where's Falsworth?" Dugan barked worriedly. 

"Haven't seen him since we took fire. Find a good position and let 'em have it." Following his own advice, Bucky crawled to the top of a freshly created embankment and flattened himself against the ground. He picked out a few German targets in his scope and began firing for all he was worth, trying to give their confused troops room for a breather to regroup. 

"I hate these guys," Dugan muttered as he began firing into the enemy's ranks. Brilliant blue light suddenly cut through the fog creeping in, bursting out of nowhere into A Company's troops. When it faded whole swathes of the field were empty, ash drifting almost a little too lazily in their place. "What was that?"

"No idea," Barnes managed to get out. Blue explosions chased the retreating forms of their comrades, mercilessly annihilating them. 

"Well... That looks... New." Dugan was, of course, referring to the super sized tank rumbling into view. It turned its cannon on them when it finished with the main body of the assault force, and snapping out of his idiotic stance- standing in full view and inviting someone to shoot him on top of the dirt wall- Bucky turned and leaped back into their hole, dragging the others with him as he went.

"Duck!" Earth and rock spewed over them as the bombardment ensued. Large clumps struck his helmet with echoing clangs, making it difficult to hear when coupled with the screaming of the flares and the odd shrieks of the blue explosions. What felt like a boulder landed solidly in the center of his back, and smoke began rolling down the embankment in thick clouds to choke them. Eyes streaming, the brunette lifted his head to see German boots marching toward him.

"Kamerad?" He croaked weakly, spitting soil out of his mouth. "That's the way you Krauts surrender, right?"

"Sie efüllen," a voice snapped.

"Me no sprechen Deutche, Fritz."

"Jetzt! Schnell!" 

"Okay, okay! You don't have to tell me twice!" Bucky was quite literally hauled to his feet along with Dugan and Jones before being pushed into a tight knot with the other survivors.

"I hope some of our boys got out."

"Me too, Dum Dum. Sarge, Falsworth's all right. He was rounded up with the rest of us."

"Less all right, then- oh... I- so sorry. Sorry." Barnes kept mumbling this as they were led past the scorched and mutilated forms of Dino Manelli and "Reb" Ralston. His men. _Howlers to the end, huh?_

Herded into a compound and then through several narrow hallways only to be shoved into tiny cylindrical cells, what was left of the 107th's A Company were left to rot in a dungeon-like place with the prisoners already wasting away there.

"Flyers, infantry, navy... French, British, American, Russian..."

"I know, Percy. They've got everybody here," Bucky replied, tiredly leaning against the bars of his cell. He was too exhausted to talk, too haunted by recent events to sleep. When he tried closing his eyes he saw Dino and Reb's faces looming back at him with cold, blank stares. It wasn't worth it. 

"Hey, what'd you do to land yourself a spot in this upstanding establishment?" Dugan asked, forcing Barnes to focus. He was talking to a bedraggled member of the Free French and a worn out U.S. Army Private, who happened to be sharing a cell with them. 

"Bailed outta my plane on the way to help the Underground," the American muttered. "Worst suicide orders I ever got, let me tell you."

"Name?" Bucky inquired.

"Morita, Private James. 123rd Infantry. Call me Jim."

"Dernier," the Frenchman answered. "Jacques Dernier. Je suis un démolisseur."

"Come again?"

"He works in demolitions, Dugan." Gabe rolled his eyes as he translated. "Tu parle l'Anglais?"

"Oui. Un peu. Monsieur Morita enseigne moi." 

"I'm quite confused," Falsworth murmured into Bucky's ear.

"You and me both, pal." The shriek of a rusty door hinge announced the presence of a few guards. The prisoners watched sullenly as they dragged the body of a British bombardier past the ranks of cells, headed for the other exit on the far side. The newcomers observed this curiously. "What was that about?"

"They take one at a time," Morita murmured. "Experiment on 'im, then drag 'im back in front of all of us as a warning when they die from the tests. They only take the ones that cause trouble. Put one foot outta line..."

"Et vous... Uh... _End_ like them," Dernier finished in faltering English. "Comme morts."

"Dead men," Gabe translated, his voice low and quiet. 

"That's what we're all gonna be in the end anyway," Morita growled. "Might as well choose how you're gonna go out: swinging, or slaving?"

"You got a unit to go back to?" Bucky asked.

"Nah. All got wiped out."

"If we get out of this, we're gonna need a few new Howlers. I think the two of you have got the stuff."

"Y- _you're_ the Howling Commandos?" Morita and Dernier were eyeing them with a cautious respect now. 

"Hate the name," Gabe muttered.

"Reb thought it up, Jones." Dugan snapped. "Him and Juniper way back in the beginning."

"Ah, was is los?" A guard called irritatedly, patrolling above their cell. 

"Nothing concerning any Goosestepping lackey like yourself, Kraut!" Dugan yelled back. There were a few subdued cheers from the new arrivals, the ones who hadn't learned to keep their heads down yet. 

"Dum Dum, you really live up to your nickname sometimes, you know that?" 

"But-"

"Didn't you hear _anything_ these guys just said?" Barnes hissed, looking exasperatedly toward the steps as a few soldiers- accompanied by a captain of the guard- approached. "Now keep your trap shut and let me handle this."

"Sarge-" 

"Shut up!" 

"Who vas the one makink trouble vorr my men?" The captain asked, boredly adjusting the glove on his left hand. Bucky cleared his throat and gritted his teeth, feigning cooperation.

"Captain, I- _Apologize_ for the conduct of my man and accept the responsibility for not addressing it sooner-"

"You Amerikanen are all alike," the man sneered, an arrogant smile playing across his face. "Alvays takink responsibility for faults other than your own. Come, let there be... Uh, how do you zay it... _Honesty_ between us. Who vas the man? I vill have a name." 

"Barnes, Sergeant James," Bucky replied with a steely calm, refusing to look away- much less blink- from the captain's gaze. "And that's all you're gonna get. Like I said before: _I take full responsibility for my men_." 

"Vine," the German sighed. "Ve vill add your name to the list for testink." A small chuckle followed the words. "Ve vill see how noble you are after that." His smile turned into an unnerved frown as Bucky smiled back.

"You know, _Kraut_ , since I'm taking the punishment I might as well have earned it myself. You master race types are all the same." His smile vanished, to be replaced by the anger at the injustice of it all which he'd harbored since his childhood. "Any man who thinks he's better than someone less fortunate than himself isn't even fit to shine that person's shoes." 

"Ach! Amerikanen schwein. Vor that you vill be next on the list." He feigned being a gentleman. "Auf wiedersehen, herr sergeant. I vill see you again... _Shortly_." 

"You didn't have to do that..." Dugan trailed off, not even able to finish his sentence. 

"I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I hadn't, Dum Dum. It's a matter of principal with me."

"If I may speak freely sir," Falsworth muttered, "your principals are somewhat suicidal from time to time."

"Ahh... You bunch of pansies," Barnes abused affectionately. 

"Any... Uh... Regretter?" Dernier asked.

"Regrets?"

"Oui."

"None. I've made my peace on Earth and with Heaven."

"What about your brother?" Gabe pointed out. 

"Then I've got one: that he won't even get a body to bury," Bucky said. There was a certain finality to his words that ended the conversation, and they all attempted to get some sleep for the work ahead. For his part, the brunette lay wide awake staring at the ceiling through the bars of the top of their cylindrical cell. _Sorry, Stevie. At least I know you'd understand my choice. You always_ were _about doing the right thing, even if it_ was _unbelievably stupid..._

It was late in the evening that they passed by. After a long day of work- which the newly captured Allied troops found to be as rude an awakening as the beginning of basic training had been- the two guards were seen dragging the body of a frail boy no more than sixteen by the cells. He'd only lasted three days since the bombardier had died upon the night of their arrival. 

"He was luckier than most," Morita whispered as the Krauts came back, heading straight for them.

"Oui. I've 'eard that un lasted quinze days, mon ami. Bon chance, Sergent."

"Thanks, guys. Dugan, despite prevailing judgement I have no choice but to place you in command of these guys. Have fun, Corporal." As they clasped his shoulders firmly Bucky snapped, "Do I look like I'm resisting? Sheesh!"

"Hey, Bucky!" Dugan called after him.

"Hmm?"

"... Thanks." It was almost worse when Barnes gave a tiny yet disarming smile back. He was led through a twisting network of passages, which gradually turned from cement to brick before his journey ended in a dimly lit room. They strapped him to a cold metal table and left, and he was alone with his thoughts. In all honesty he'd never expected it to end like this, but there was some form of closure that granted him peace. He slept. 

"Interesting." A voice commented, startling him awake. "Most men are... Shall ve say... Too afraid to rest, for vear ve might do something while they sleep."

"I know your type," Bucky murmured tiredly as the man appeared in his line of vision, a pair of round spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose and a bow tie about his neck. As he slipped into a lab coat Barnes continued. "You prefer to have _conscious_ subjects. Better to see their reactions that way."

"You haf... Experience in these matters?"

"Please," Bucky scoffed. "I grew up in _Brooklyn_. You know how many gangs we've got over there right now, which - by the way- is less than we had when I was a kid?"

"You make your point," the scientist conceded. I am Dokter Zola. Und you are..."

"Sergeant James Barnes. Serial number 32557038. 107th United States Army Infantry. Bad news for you, pal: I'm a patriot." 

"You are a fighter," Zola chuckled. "I vill give you that. Zer gut. You see, you vill need to be strong if you vish to survive the tests." Bucky winced as a needle was shoved deep into his arm. "But first, I vill be observing your blood sample's reaction to see if you are even a viable candidate. You see, ve have... Acquired a new type. Directly from Doktor Erskine's vork vith Project Rebirth."

"Project Whatbirth?" Bucky retorted with a skeptical frown.

"Mmm. Our sources on te inside haf managed to smuggle some of the blood samples out from under the noses off your government. Ve have three of the twelve only successful test results now to create our own." 

"Own what?"

"You vill see... Iff you live that long." 

"You're all heart, Zola." 

"Let me see your dog tags," the scientist said. "I need to determine your blood type, first off all. Iff you are not viable for transfusion with the sample then there iss no need to continue vith this venture." 

"I'm A positive," Bucky sighed. "With just a dash of "too stubborn to be cooperative" mixed in. Mum always said it was in my DNA."

"How amusink. _Fortunately_ vor you, the subject was O positif. You are viable for transfusion."

"Well don't expect me to leap for joy; being strapped to a table and all kinda puts a crimp in my style." Bucky scowled as Zola snickered. "What's so funny over there, chuckles?"

"Most men consider it a show off defiance to remain silent for this process," he explained, a strained smile plastered badly on his face. "But _you_... _You_ know how to aggravate me best, it seems."

"Just one of my many talents." 

Zola came in two or three times that day to experiment on the samples, but aside from getting blood drawn there wasn't any torture from him. It was at night, when the guards were relieved of duty and no one was there to monitor him, that the pain commenced. They found it good sport to beat him, lying against the table. Bucky could take the blows they dished out, knew they wanted a response, and held his tongue. They only hit harder, but they would lose interest when they realized he wasn't going to make a sound. Growing up on the streets of Brooklyn with Steve Rogers had conditioned him to give the least amount of satisfaction possible. The dawn crept in through the barred and foggy windows of the room on the second morning to find him so badly bruised around his eye that it was swollen shut.

"Oh, I see you haf had visitors," Zola remarked cheerily. "How nice."

"They were a real civil group." Bucky growled, wincing as his split lip opened up again. 

"Your blood samples reacted favorably to the zerum. Ve can begin the procedure today." 

"Ah... No thanks. I'll pass." Zola's smile was cold.

"Still cracking jokes. You von't be soon." 

"Killjoy." 

"An interesting phrase... Giffen the circumstances." Bucky suppressed a shudder at the utter callousness with which he had said that and retorted,

"You don't scare me." The smile left Zola's face. He leaned in close to whisper, close enough that the brunette could smell a fancy-schmancy French wine on his breath. 

"Oh but I do, Sargent. I terrify men in a way even your vorst nightmares couldn't hope to imagine. And now... Now you get to live it." He pulled away and began fiddling with some sort of machine that Barnes had been dreading from the moment he'd noticed its presence in the corner. "You see, I don't do this because I haf to. I do this because I enjoy it." A switch was flicked, and the tiny room was bathed in blinding white light. It seared his skin, and the greedy rays began to flicker hungrily at the edges of his mind. It took him a moment to realize that the inhuman screaming was issuing from his own mouth, but he couldn't stop. The pain was too intense. _I can't- black out. Gotta keep- it together- OW!_

"Herr Doktor?" A young man in a lab coat stepped forward holding a clipboard and offering a pen. "Herr Schmidt anfragen alle forschung gesendet werden um Valkyrie basis." The ray abruptly, blessedly, shut off.

"Could you repeat that, Fritz? I wasn't paying attention," Bucky groaned, and received a smack across the jaw from the soldier who had accompanied the scientist in response. 

"Insolent parasite!"

"That iss enuff, _Herr_ Leutnant." Zola signed the papers and handed the clipboard back. "You may leave now." The Hydra Lieutenant eyed Barnes mistrustfully as he stalked out. "I had assumed you had passed out," the Swiss scientist commented as he checked his equipment before turning the ray on again, making it impossible for his subject to get in a snide response. Zola kept up the ray for about an hour before finally turning it off. By then Bucky had gone numb all over, and lay there weakly panting.

"Vhere are your clever quips now, Sargent?" It was a nasty smile that accompanied it when he saw that Barnes had slipped into unconsciousness almost immediately after the equipment had shut down. He gathered a few papers and left. 

Gradually the world came back into focus as his body began to feel again, the merciful numbness wearing off. Bucky groaned, the searing pain waking him up to a quiet room. He was still strapped to the table, but at that point he was too weak to do anything about it. He desperately wanted- needed- sleep, but it was elusive and hardly forthcoming. 

"Zer gut. Er wach ist." _Oh, great..._ The guards' fun was greatly diminished with a half-dead victim, and they left far more quickly than the last time. They had almost been a blessing, because under their beatings the brunette had passed out again. A sharp clanging sound produced the unwelcome watery gray light of dawn quite suddenly into his senses, and he tensed, waiting for the soft, whispery tread of his tormentor. It never came, and he relaxed more out of physical necessity than ease. His only indication the rising of the sun, Barnes slowly watched it climb higher in the window pane; when it was beginning to lower itself Zola appeared as if out of thin air with several accomplices, each preparing a syringe. They were filled with a thick purple liquid and then jabbed deep into his shoulders, arms, and legs simultaneously before slowly plowing deeper as they released their poisonous concoctions into his bloodstream. The pain was worse than the rays. It felt as if his blood were on fire. 

Bucky kicked out, his feet groping at empty air... Until they struck something solid.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

He jerked awake to find his boots pressed firmly against a large rock and lay there taking in deep, rasping breaths. 

"It was just a dream," he muttered quietly to himself over and over. "Just a dream." He made a halfhearted attempt at getting up, rising onto his elbows, but froze when he noticed Steve lying on his side with his head propped up on his arm. Barnes had almost forgotten he was there in his panic. He cleared his throat, prepared to defend himself, but no remark ever came. Rogers simply continued to stare at him with wide blue eyes, and the pair remained that way for a good few minutes. This odd, nonverbal expression of thought was broken by the hooting of an owl, and Steve rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in his shirt sleeve. Bucky hadn't even noticed that he'd taken his jacket off, and looked down to find the smoke-stained, torn and ripped leather draped over him. He allowed himself a small, rueful smile; Steve was taking care of _him_ now.


	21. Epilogue: Until Infinity

Bucky stepped out onto the balcony of the apartment, a cup of coffee in his hands sending curls of whispy steam into the early morning air. He ran his organic fingers through a mess of long but neat brown hair, the bionic ones still curled about the ceramic mug. He could hear knocking further inside.

"It's open." Steve came in on quiet feet; despite being 6' and around 170 something pounds of pure muscle, he still somehow managed to maintain the noiseless step of a cat from his pre-serum days. 

"You're looking better," he commented. Bucky leaned on the rail and smiled. T'Challa had been as good as his word in removing all the Hydra programming from his mind, but it had taken a bit, and the worn look on Rogers' features showed how much recent events had taken their toll. His hair was done up in a 40s-esque style but his beard, while well-groomed, was as ragged as the rest of him. His eyes were dark and sad. The guy was exhausted.

"Yeah, and you look like garbage," he retorted meaningfully. Steve huffed, pretending to be offended when in reality he was too tired to care. Finally the blond gave up and came up to the balcony edge with him. They looked out over the misty jungle of Wakanda for a few minutes in contented silence. Bucky sighed.

"You know when we were stupid kids, and we used to pretend we were paratroopers, jumping out of second story windows with sheets and all that? I never actually thought that I'd be in a war."

"Me neither," Steve murmured. "... Especially not like this." 

"Well let's be honest," Bucky reasoned. "I don't think anybody was anticipating a super serum in the 1920s except the crazy scientist who made it." Rogers laughed. 

"Yeah, true." His light blue gaze drifted over the landscape below them. "I never wanted any of this." 

"I know. You were surprisingly okay with being a short bit of nothing that got pneumonia whenever a stiff breeze came through." Steve shrugged.

"Facts are facts, Buck. You gotta accept things for what they are or you're just kidding yourself." Bucky was quiet for a few moments. 

"Ever since Cat-dude fixed my head I've been remembering all sorts of things," he murmured. "I don't know if you remember this, but it was on your tenth birthday..."

"We saw _The Racket_ ," Steve said, nodding.

"And we caught that trolley afterward on our way home, and I was going on about Tommy Meighan, and you poked fun at me because my idol was an actor?" 

"Yeah, I remember. One of the things that the serum did was give me an eidetic memory. You said something cryptic about my not seeing 'it.' Whatever 'it' was."

"Thomas Meighan was never my idol," Bucky explained quietly. Steve smiled.

"I figured as much. Your old man was a stellar character reference." 

"He wasn't either. You were." The blond looked at him, surprised.

"Really?" 

"Yeah. I mean, you were this scrap of nothing that never took no for an answer, and that always struck a cord with me." Bucky thought a few moments, choosing his next words carefully. 

"It's the reason I didn't die in that Hydra base in Azzano, and it's the reason I'm still alive after that bit with the Sokovia Accords. But-" he added with a sudden reproachful tone- "It's also the reason I was in the habit of looking into alleys whenever I passed them by just in case you'd gotten into another fight." 

"Buck-" 

"I was _proud_ to be seen prowling about Brooklyn with you, kid. Always have been... always will be." 

"You were _my_ idol too, did you know that?" Steve replied, slightly choked up. Bucky flashed him a true Barnes smile, full of cocky sarcasm and over-confidence. 

"Course I knew. What kind of person _wouldn't_ idolize this exquisite work of human anatomy and brainpower?" Steve rolled his eyes and punched him in the shoulder. They settled back into looking over their surroundings. 

"I'm glad you're back, Buck." 

"I'm glad to be back, too." 

A comfortable silence settled between them, and they watched the birds flit through the trees. 

“Is Thanos really as bad as everyone’s been saying?” Bucky murmured questioningly after a while. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. 

“I think he’s worse,” he admitted. “I just... I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Buck. Fighting aliens and...”

“I think you can just leave it at that,” Bucky allowed sympathetically. They exchanged a grim expression. “Look, whatever happens out there today I just want you to know that- that I’m going to be there, right next to you, like I’ve always been. Okay? I’ve got your back.” 

“ ‘Till the end of the line?” Steve asked with depressed humor. 

“ ‘Till the end of the line.”

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: ALL RIGHTS TO MARVEL, MARVEL COMICS, TIMELY COMICS, ETC. (Whoever owns the rights to Captain America and Bucky from the comics and now the movies.) 
> 
> Had to get that out of the way so that I won't get sued. ;)


End file.
